


Harry Potter and the Trial of the Wizengamot

by DAZzle_10



Series: The 'Restoration' Series [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus Dumbledore Bashing, Disordered Eating, Gen, Good Severus Snape, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Pagan Festivals, Period-Typical Homophobia, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slavery, Time Travel, Traditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 107,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26419996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: Harry's life could be said to have picked up speed since he and his friends helped the Weasley Twins guarantee a Lockhart-free third year at Hogwarts. He has a seat in the Wizengamot, a shiny new apprenticeship, and a mad serial killer of a godfather on the loose, and the world seems to get darker and darker with each new revelation that comes to light.Salazar just wants his nephew to be happy and safe. Well, perhaps that simplifies his aims somewhat, but it seems a nice little package for him to wrap everything else up in. Unfortunately, there are a few obstacles yet undealt with, but he is not above doing whatever it takes to remove them.What could go wrong?
Relationships: Cornelius Fudge/Salazar Slytherin, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Dudley Dursley & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Salazar Slytherin, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom & Harry Potter, Salazar Slytherin & Quirinus Quirrell, Salazar Slytherin & Severus Snape
Series: The 'Restoration' Series [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680208
Comments: 420
Kudos: 435





	1. Chapter 1

Harry James Potter, Lord of the Potter Family, Boy-Who-Lived and apprentice of Master Severus Snape, stares silently around at the large chamber that he has found himself in, more than a little glad that his uncle is here beside him, even if the man _is_ very much invisible and silent, his magical aura snuffed out altogether – not that Harry would have been able to see said magical aura in the first place, because Master Snape will apparently only be teaching him that sort of thing once he has reached a sufficient level of Occlumency. Of course, Harry won’t be learning _Occlumency_ for at least another month, so suffice to say, he has a while before he’ll be able to see Salazar’s magical aura, even when it is let loose, never mind the many magical auras of the milling Heads of Houses just starting to gather around him, chatting easily with one another as though they’re all lifelong friends.

There’s no one here who’s even close to his age, he registers, and although he’d known that this would be the case, it’s one thing to know it and quite another to see it for himself. He is utterly, undeniably an outsider here, and yet he will have to take to this like a duck to water – or at very least, pretend to. Luckily, he and Salazar have spent more than enough time discussing this and going over every little detail, occasionally with Lucius and Narcissa, and even once with Nicolas and Perenelle. Honestly, Harry still isn’t quite sure how Salazar managed to convince them to help out, because they don’t seem like the type to dance around in strange political games, but perhaps it has something to do with them having an apparent soft spot for children.

“Ah, Lord Potter!”

_Speak of the Devil…_

Harry turns with just a hint of bounce in his step, fixing a mischievous grin in place and offering Nicolas a short bow before springing upright.

“Lord Flamel,” he returns eagerly as he extends his hand, projecting _child_ to the room at large but, equally importantly, displaying a perfect knowledge of tradition in formal greetings and an ease in his actions; the combination will go a long way to suggesting that he is not an outsider here and never was, for this etiquette to be so innate at such a young age. “Please, call me Harry.”

Of course, it’s also very significant that, despite Nicolas’s indulging smile, the old – _very_ old – man doesn’t patronise Harry in the slightest.

“Harry,” he echoes, taking Harry’s hand. “It would be my pleasure – but I must insist that you call me Nicolas.”

“Of course, Nicolas,” Harry agrees at once, and that is that; Nicolas moves on to catch up with his old friends.

_Step one complete._

Harry drifts as casually as he can across the floor of the chamber, letting his eyes roam the crowd without shame, though he remains wary not to meet anyone’s eyes. Salazar’s presence just behind him, with a light pressure on his shoulder keeping him aware of his uncle’s position, is key in allowing him to stay relaxed, knowing that the majority of the eyes on him might as well be those of wolves examining a lone deer.

So long as he doesn’t try to make a show of power and intimidation, he will be fine, he tells himself. The trick here is to endear himself to them and let them underestimate his capabilities; it could be a far more powerful tool than most of these veteran members of the Wizengamot have ever encountered or held in their own possession. They will grow a little softer, a little less wary in his company, and some might even cooperate a little more easily out of misguided pity for him.

As far as most of the world is concerned, the new Lord Potter has been all but dropped into this by his still-grieving uncle, and Harry knows that Salazar is more than willing to play the villain in that regard now that he no longer has to interact with the majority of these people as Salazar Potter for some time; even once Salazar does start showing his face again, it will have been long enough that Harry should have his hooks far enough into the Wizengamot not to be required to rely on a pretence of having been victimised by his uncle.

“Lord Potter, it _is_ an honour…” a familiar voice drawls behind him, and Harry turns to repeat the show of a supposed first greeting, with Lucius this time, though just as happily as he had with Nicolas.

This, too, is a point in and of itself. The Potter Family is open to any and all potential allies and friendships; let’s make it a free-for all! Who can befriend young Harry Potter and gain his trust the fastest?

The introductions start to trickle in a little more quickly after that, until it becomes a stream, and then a river, and finally a flood of various Heads of Houses, some of whom Harry could not for the life of him guess the name of. Luckily, no one is offended. After all, how could anyone be upset with a thirteen-year-old for forgetting the names of some families on his very first day as a member of the Wizengamot, all alone and, despite the situation, so very polite and friendly to everyone?

Finally, Harry reaches his last few greetings, suddenly very glad that Salazar insisted on him arriving more than an hour and a half early, given that there are only fifteen minutes left until the Wizengamot session itself starts, before which he certainly needs a moment to breathe.

“Lord Potter,” a horribly familiar and unusually sombre tone greets him, and Harry jerks his head in a stiff nod to the owner of the voice, glad that both he and Salazar agreed not to attempt to hide his disdain for this man; it wouldn’t work, anyway, given how well-known his dislike for Hogwarts’ Headmaster has become around the school itself.

“Lord Dumbledore,” he returns, holding out his hand for the curtest of handshakes and not offering the use of his first name.

Luckily, Dumbledore moves on quickly after that. In his place comes Lord Weasley – “Please, do call me Arthur!” – who thanks Harry profusely for saving Ron from the basilisk, unknowingly providing Harry with a far better endorsement than could ever have been dreamt of.

“Ah, my dear Lord Potter!” a portly man in a bowler hat exclaims once Arthur has turned to Lady Bones, swooping in to bow deeply.

“Minister Fudge!” Harry beams at once, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. “Please, I’d be honoured if you’d call me Harry.”

“I would be honoured to accept, Harry,” Fudge chuckles. “If you’d be happy to call me Cornelius…?”

“Of course,” Harry agrees easily, nodding rapidly until his head swims just a little and Salazar has to reach out a subtle, invisible hand to steady him. “You know, my uncle has told me so much about you!”

“Oh,” Cornelius blinks, shifting strangely awkwardly, and Harry tries to work out what could possibly have caused such a reaction, but comes up blank. “Er… Has he?”

Brushing off his confusion at the response, Harry forges onwards.

“Yes, he says you hold very delightful conversation,” he announces bluntly, and hears someone coo quietly behind him, apparently utterly enthralled by his childish display. “And that you’re a very nice man.”

Fudge relaxes at once, a pleased smile growing slowly to replace his previous deer-in-the-headlights stare.

“Well, I’m pleased to hear it,” he replies. “You know, your uncle is a lovely man himself – how is he fairing at the moment? I understand that he’s taking some time to grieve your father properly?”

“Yes, it was a really hard blow for him to take,” Harry agrees, still in that same innocent tone, as though he’s merely parroting others’ words. “I never really knew my parents, and it’s been hard for me, so I can’t imagine what it must be like for him.”

A light tap on his shoulder informs him that his uncle is departing, and he twitches his fingers in silent acknowledgement of the message, feeling the faintest hint of a breeze as Salazar slips from the room. He’ll be back in a few minutes without the Invisibility Cloak, Harry knows, though one could argue that he won’t be any less hidden to the majority of their company with his hood drawn up, no wand on display, his magical aura still as non-existent as ever and even his voice charmed to seem completely unidentifiable.

“Yes, of course,” Cornelius is nodding along in the meantime, a sad frown affixed over his features. “Really, it must have been a terrible shock – but at least he has you, eh?”

“I do my best,” Harry shrugs modestly, trying his very hardest not to think back to Salazar’s struggles with grief just last year, eventually solved by an unexpected event that Harry had not orchestrated himself; he’d not been able to alleviate his uncle’s pain in the slightest, and that honestly still bothers him quite a bit. “Unfortunately, my aunt and uncle on my mother’s side don’t make anything easier for him.”

“Oh?” Cornelius asks, eyebrows rising in silent question.

“They have very traditional muggle views on love,” Harry explains, a childish sneer slipping into his voice only partially on purpose. “They’ve treated him quite poorly in the past, and it certainly hasn’t helped when others –” he lets his eyes flicker to Dumbledore, “– have come along to exacerbate it – I’d reckon deliberately.”

He widens his eyes on the last part to maintain his air of innocence despite the provocative tone that his words have taken on, and Cornelius seems about to ask more, gaze flickering uncertainly to Dumbledore as a small crease forms in his brow, but is cut off by the arrival of Salazar himself – not that Cornelius could possibly know that it _is_ Salazar – from straight across the chambers, having made an unashamed beeline towards Harry.

“Lord Potter,” he greets smoothly, executing a deep bow that has Harry crowing gleefully on the inside at the sight of his uncle deferring so publicly to him. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise, Lord Slytherin,” Harry returns, offering an equally deep bow just to make sure that not only does everyone else feel slightly unsettled by seeing one of their number take Harry so seriously as to offer him more than a nod of the head, but also that they cannot miss the full consequences with Harry’s greater display of respect in turn. “Please, call me Harry.”

“Harry, of course,” Salazar returns, inclining his head calmly. “I would offer you the same courtesy, but I worry that doing so would rather defeat the point of the hood.”

Harry lets himself laugh loudly at that, making a firm point not to suppress his mirth for a second, and hears the rest of the Wizengamot fall silent, all attention attracted by the sound of his clear amusement.

“I like you,” he announces gleefully in the lull, pretending not to notice the reaction _that_ causes in favour of bouncing a little on his toes. “You know, my best friend’s in Slytherin. She’s amazing, because she’s a muggleborn, but she’s still got everyone else to like her there – not that she’s only amazing because of that, I mean, but… Why don’t people like muggleborns in Slytherin House? I mean, I _know_ , blood purity and all that weird stuff, but…?”

“Harry?” Salazar starts, a sigh in his tone as he shakes his head. “I wish I could say that I couldn’t possibly tell you.”

Forget the stir that Harry’s pronouncement of affection caused; the reaction to Salazar’s words might as well be an outcry in the otherwise silent room. A Slytherin, suggesting that he doesn’t support blood purity arguments?

“I will tell you that my ancestor had no problems with muggleborns himself,” Salazar continues, uncaring of the muttering around them, and quiet falls once more, everyone apparently more than happy to listen in to what must seem a terribly strange declaration. “Of all the Hogwarts houses, however, Slytherin House has always been the most inclined towards the Dark – still Grey, of course, in keeping with the school as a whole and my ancestor’s own beliefs, but certainly more inclined towards tradition. Unfortunately, that urge to protect our heritage gradually shifted towards hatred of those who threatened that which we held dear, and we stopped seeking to educate them. We… closed our borders, in effect, to protect ourselves, and lost sight of our original aim in doing so. Perhaps you could say that we even forgot an element of our own heritage in a bid to keep it safe from outsiders.”

Harry listens with his head cocked in feigned interest, having already heard this before and explained it himself to Hermione, the same day he met her. This is entirely for the benefit for those around them, and to form a public relationship between the Potters and the Slytherins, for convenience and much more besides.

“There is more I could say, but I fear we do not have the time,” Salazar tells him sadly, shoulders sloping downwards for just a second before they straighten once more to reform the impervious man that Harry knows hides his uncle well. “Would you do me the honour of joining me for today’s session? Perhaps afterwards, I can explain some more – or perhaps next week.”

Beaming, Harry nods happily and lets Salazar lead him up to take seats in the unofficial ‘Grey area’ of the Wizengamot, a firm statement from Harry that his family may be open to everyone, but they will remain a part of the Grey, and an equally firm statement from Salazar, who until now has kept the Slytherin Family among the small section of seats with ambiguous allegiance, up at the very top of the stands. Their movement seems to startle the watching Heads of Houses into actions, everyone rushing to settle in place before the Wizengamot session begins.

_All in all_ , Harry thinks as he settles back to watch the chaos, _this has gone fairly well._

“So, how did you find that?” Salazar asks softly as they walk through the Ministry, an unobtrusive privacy charm constructed to stop anyone from listening in without Salazar, now back to ‘Potter mode’, being aware of it.

The charm also causes all but particularly determined observers to turn away from the conversation and blur over it somewhat, which is very useful in allowing Harry to talk to his uncle without having to act overly concerned while the man puts on a quietly solemn front.

“It was pretty fun,” he grins. “Their faces when we were talking…”

Salazar laughs, ruffling Harry’s hair gently, but nods in concession, apparently unable to deny Harry’s opinion on the matter. Really, Harry doesn’t think that he could have had a better introduction to the Wizengamot than today’s session; everything went so smoothly, and the issues discussed were actually reasonably interesting. Harry didn’t speak up, of course – he’s nowhere near ready for _that_ – but he learnt a lot and certainly can’t wait to discuss it all with his uncle once they get home. Of course, that’s not all he’s looking forward to at home, even if it is the only thing that they’ll do today, before Harry has to get to bed.

“We’re going to do some wandless stuff tomorrow, right?” he asks eagerly, unable to resist the urge to skip a little when Salazar nods. “And look at some runes?”

“And look at some runes,” Salazar confirms, with a falsely long-suffering sigh. “If you insist, Harry…”

“I do,” Harry confirms, still grinning, then catches sight of an all too familiar poster and feels his smile melt away in seconds, his good mood vanishing with it.

“Harry?” Salazar asks, audibly concerned, then must realise what has caught Harry’s attention, because he slips an arm over Harry’s shoulders to squeeze in gentle comfort. “You’re safe, you hear me, Harry? You’re safe.”

Slowly, shakily, Harry manages a nod, tearing his eyes away from the poster and up to meet his uncle’s worried stare as he summons a faltering smile which, of course, does absolutely nothing to convince its target.

“Sirius Black is not going to reach you in here,” Salazar tells him firmly, arm squeezing a little tighter around Harry’s shoulders as he draws to a stop and pulls Harry out of the way of the bustling Ministry officials.

Swallowing, Harry feels Salazar’s hands – still mottled with scars from that fire in the Chamber of Secrets – settle on his upper arms with a strong but not uncomfortable grip, his uncle’s head ducking until there’s nothing he can do but meet the man’s eyes reluctantly.

“Sirius Black would be stupid to come here,” Salazar tells him seriously. “I knew him well enough in his younger years; he was an idiot, yes, but not _that_ much of one. He will not get through the wards that I have set up around our home now, either. If he does somehow get close to you, he will have to duel me, and as skilled a duellist as I believe he became in his later years, he will be weak after spending so long in the company of dementors. Besides that, all you have to do is will it, and as long as you are not within opposing wards such as those at Hogwarts, your House ring will transport you instantly to Potter Manor.”

Harry has heard all of this several times already, and he will undoubtedly hear it several times more, because Salazar knows full well that it calms him to run through the protections around him that will hopefully keep him safe from an escaped mass-murderer who betrayed his parents and is apparently now after him. In reality, Harry is likely far safer than the majority of his friends now, with the number of safety precautions that Salazar has set up since the news of Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban was first announced.

“I know,” he tells Salazar earnestly, with that thought still floating lazily in his head. “I’m just… nervous, I guess.”

“You are allowed to be,” Salazar tells him, firm and sincere. “Do you understand, Harry? You are allowed to be nervous, or scared, or even angry. As long as you keep yourself safe, then everything will be fine.”

Nodding, Harry sucks in a deep breath then lets the air slowly back out to compose himself. The ease with which Salazar’s solemn gaze pierces him is, he has to admit, somewhat unsettling, but he trusts this man more than anyone else to do what’s best for him.

“No more wandering after murderers or deadly creatures,” he agrees quietly, to assure his uncle that he has received the message while also bringing a little more levity to the conversation, and earns himself a small twitch of Salazar’s lips in response.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Salazar tells him sternly, straightening and suppressing his wry smile as he guides Harry back into the main flow of Ministry visitors and workers alike.

In truth, Harry really does plan to stay safe this coming academic year. Yes, he thought that last year, and even the year before, and admittedly he did not succeed in holding to that commitment but, this time around, he plans to stay safe simply to spite Sirius Black.

Apparently, the man has escaped from Azkaban and is after Harry to get revenge for destroying his master – never mind that Harry was _one_ at the time – having supposedly been talking about it in his sleep for weeks beforehand. Harry won’t deny that the reports don’t _quite_ add up in his books – the fact that he goes to Hogwarts, the only magical school in the country, is scarcely worth remarking on, never mind muttering obsessively for weeks about – but that’s hardly a reason to avoid taking as many precautions as he possibly can to ensure that Salazar gets at least a month or two of reprieve from the Potter Lordship before Harry is brutally and tragically murdered and the title reverts back to him.

“I will admit that the whole situation does make me wonder if I was wrong to emancipate you,” Salazar admits softly, settling a long-fingered hand on Harry’s shoulder once more as they emerge into the bustling Atrium. “It would’ve been easier to keep you safe myself if you still had your Heir ring instead.”

Harry squints up at him, bemused.

“Can’t you just make something else to do that?”

Grimacing, Salazar shakes his head.

“The magic is incredibly ancient; it is rooted in some of the oldest structured land magic in existence. To attempt to connect to that with so little familiarity to it would be…” he trails off.

Confused, Harry waits for him to continue, but nothing comes. Salazar simply stares blankly ahead for several seconds, then mutters a soft curse, steering Harry away from their previous destination, the row of fireplaces set into the far wall of the Atrium, and towards the nearest apparition point instead.

“Salazar?” Harry asks uncertainly, and has to admit that it still feels a little weird to refer to the man without ‘Uncle’ on the front of his name, as much as he has decided that it’s quicker and far more comfortable to do so. “I thought we were taking the Floo home…?”

“We’re taking a minor detour,” Salazar tells him, irritatingly cryptic, and Harry opens his mouth to request more information, but they reach the apparition point before he can speak, Salazar’s hand shifting down from his shoulder to curl tightly around his upper arm instead. “Deep breath…”

Harry groans as dead leaves crunch beneath his feet, doubling over as his ears ring with the double crack and the sheer pressure of apparition, which _definitely_ does not usually feel so bad as that.

“My apologies, Harry,” Salazar offers gently, rubbing a soothing hand over his back. “The ward exceptions were not designed with the goal of bringing others with us in mind – and I’m afraid that it will feel much the same when we leave.”

All Harry manages is another pathetic moan, earning himself a soft chuckle before Salazar’s hand falls away from his back, the man striding over to a large, rune-covered stone several metres away, which seems to pulse with _something_ that feels strangely familiar and yet entirely different from anything that Harry has ever felt before.

“For wards to remain stable within changing environmental conditions,” Salazar explains, throwing the words over his shoulder as he crouches to examine the rock, “Anchors must be used. Sometimes just the one, sometimes two, sometimes three… and there is only one structure within the entirety of the Isles that is contained within wards using four anchors. For every anchor used, there must be at least one caster to erect the ward in the first place.”

“Is this _really_ the time for an impromptu lesson?” Harry complains, because as much as he loves learning new things, and as much as he’s sure that his uncle has a point somewhere within this, he’s tired, a little nauseous, and desperately out of breath. “What’s with the stone?”

The _look_ that Uncle Salazar throws him is definitely amused; Harry gets the sudden feeling that he has missed something particularly obvious.

“ _This_ is an anchor,” Salazar declares with the tone of someone who not only thinks that what he has said is rather obvious, but knows it to be so. “An anchor that I spent a good year working on, in fact. It acts as a corner stone to more wards than any other anchor in Europe – besides its three companions.”

Comprehension starts to dawn within the exhaustion, but Harry finds that he doesn’t quite have the energy or wherewithal to put everything together. Luckily, Salazar takes pity on him.

“This is one of the four anchors of the Hogwarts wards,” his uncle murmurs, running an almost fond hand over it. “Most of the time that you spend out of my sight this year, you will spend within these wards. I already have _some_ access to monitoring spells over every Hogwarts resident; if I choose to, I can enhance them just a little to give me warning if you are ever harmed. A few more wards, and I can monitor Hogsmeade – and possibly even…”

Salazar trails off into silence, his eyes lighting up at whatever exciting prospects he can surely see before him, and Harry waits with only a touch of impatience, more than capable of understanding the pull of a particularly intriguing idea. As much as he wants to get home and have dinner, he suspects that it would simply be too much effort to even attempt to pull Salazar from his thoughts at the moment.

“Yes, well,” Salazar starts finally, shaking himself from his reverie and turning his attention back to the anchor, “I’ll have to look into that over the next few weeks – maybe I could make some other modifications, given time – but for now…”

Harry observes in silence as Salazar closes his eyes, kneeling before the anchor with his palms laid flat against the engraved stone, and has to admit that, although he himself has no idea whatsoever of what is happening, it _is_ quite interesting to watch, especially when the anchor starts to glow a faint silver, the light expanding and seeming to curl not only around Salazar but Harry as well, until something simply _clicks_ – not audibly, as such, and not even visibly, but in the most literal yet figurative way that Harry could ever imagine – and the brightness is gone.

“There,” Salazar pants, staggering to his feet with a nod. “A minor change, but it should do the trick.”

If a ‘minor’ change has left his uncle, one of the most powerful magic-users Harry knows, looking that drained, Harry suddenly thinks he understands why it took a year to set the wards up in the first place. Before him, Salazar wavers and catches himself on a nearby tree, eyes slipping closed for a second, and Harry finds himself wondering if his uncle will be any fit state to apparate.

“So… Are we going home now?” he checks, not at all comforted by Salazar’s weary nod. “Are you going to be _alright_ to get us home?”

This seems horribly like a repeat of the aftermath of the basilisk’s death, Harry decides. He didn’t particularly enjoy having Salazar faint on him then, never mind surrounded by people who cared about Harry but were – at the time – decidedly hostile towards his uncle, and he doesn’t think he’d like it any more a second time.

“I’ll be fine,” Salazar assures him softly – not so much, Harry thinks, to sound soothing, but because he cannot muster any greater volume. “Hogwarts, if you will…?”

_Well,_ that _’s new_ , Harry thinks, quietly astonished by the sudden invigoration of his uncle as he reaches out to accept Salazar’s hand.

Who knew that a magically enchanted castle could offer its creator extra energy?

“I should warn you, Harry,” Salazar ventures carefully, “That Hogwarts will only be able to fuel us for the first bit of the journey; it is highly likely that I’ll use quite a bit of my strength ensuring that we make it the rest of the way safely.”

_Oh, no…_

“Don’t tell me you’re going to –”

Salazar steps and twists, and Harry wisely shuts up as apparition tries to squeeze the life out of him, holding it together once his feet hit solid ground just long enough to catch his falling uncle before collapsing himself. Once he can be certain that he isn’t going to be _immediately_ sick, although he isn’t sure he’s in any state to stand yet, he turns his attention to Salazar to find him out cold, pale and shivering in the cool breeze of an early August night.

There’s only one thing for it, Harry decides, drawing in a deep breath and praying silently that he doesn’t throw up.

“Aunt Petunia! Uncle Vernon! Help!”

That, of course, is how Harry spends the rest of the evening – once Aunt Petunia has helped him to his feet and then inside, and Uncle Vernon has grudgingly lifted Salazar to carry him in after them – assuring the rest of his family that no, they weren’t attacked, and that Salazar has simply over-extended himself a little and needs to rest. _No, Aunt Petunia, it’s not the first time it has happened_ , and _Yes, Dud, he’ll be fine in the morning_ – and Harry doesn’t miss Uncle Vernon’s disappointment at that particular reassurance either.

If nothing else, it’s a very useful warning of what, exactly, could happen if Harry ever allows himself to get too magically exhausted.

In a rural area of Scotland just south of Glasgow, a large yet pitifully thin dog limps into the dry warmth of a hidden cave to shelter from the late summer thunderstorm crashing down above its head. For a moment, it seems to consider curling up and simply drifting off to sleep, its limbs twitching with the suppressed urge, but instead, it ducks its head, dropping a rolled newspaper onto the floor, and between one second and the next, a man appears where the dog once was, shivering manically as he reaches trembling fingers down to the newspaper. As he lifts it, lightening splits the sky, a streak of brightness penetrating the cave to illuminate his gaunt features, an emaciated version of the same face that has been pinned up all across the country as a part of the Isles’ largest ever – well – witch-hunt.

Slowly, Sirius Black, infamous mass-murderer and only escapee from Azkaban, scans the paper that he has managed to retrieve from within the bin of a local magical household. It is at least a week old – no, a little more, in fact – but at the moment, Britain’s most-wanted fugitive is hardly in any situation to complain; he’ll take all he can get, and be more than grateful for it.

All that really matters, after all, is that he’s free, and he’s on his way to get his revenge.

Most of the newspaper contains nothing of note, though he drinks it in anyway, a habit refined over the last twelve years, with the Minister’s newspaper the only thing that has served as any kind of distraction from the leaching despair of his prison guards. It’s on the third page, however, that a name catches Black’s attention, his dull, sunken eyes drawn instantly towards the two words as he mouths them over and over again: _Harry Potter_.

Quickly, he returns to the start of the particular article, re-digesting it to ensure that there is no extra context that he has missed, but it’s just an article summarising the latest Wizengamot session. What kind of business could have got Harry Potter involved with the Wizengamot, when he’s only – what? Twelve?

Quickly, Black runs through the maths in his head. _Thirteen._

What sort of business could a thirteen-year-old have with the Wizengamot? Black finds that he cannot fathom an answer to such a question, but further reading of the article brings comprehension dawning soon after.

_Further excitement came in the form of a new attendee; Lord Harry James Potter, just thirteen years of age, attended his first Wizengamot session on Sunday evening, having taken up the Potter Lordship last week. He was emancipated by his uncle, Salazar Linfred Potter, shortly after his thirteenth birthday and subsequent formation of an apprenticeship between the then-Heir Potter and esteemed Potions Master Severus Snape. For more information on the emancipation and Salazar Potter’s reasons, see last Thursday’s copy of_ The Daily Prophet _._

_The new Lord Potter made waves in the Wizengamot, accepting greetings from every other member, including the likes of Lord Flamel and Lady Bones, as well as Lord Malfoy, Lady Greengrass, Minister Fudge and, perhaps most notably, Lady Zabini, Lord Dumbledore and Lord Slytherin, whose presence may or may not have been influenced by a chance to gain standing with the Wizengamot’s youngest member. The greeting between Lord Dumbledore, Lord of the Light, and Lord Potter was visibly stiff, with Lord Potter appearing to hold something of a grudge against his own Headmaster for reasons that are yet unclear (see Page 4). The greeting between Lord Slytherin and Lord Potter, by contrast, was most open and illuminating, with the two engaging in a discussion on the attitude of Slytherin House within Hogwarts, Lord Potter’s school (see Page 4)._

Black doesn’t waste a moment before flipping the page to scan through the contents of the other side. _Salazar Potter_ , comes the faint echo in the back of his mind, and already, bitterness is swelling with the name. Oh, he remembers Salazar Potter – and more importantly, he knows that he will not rest until that man pays for what he’s done. This ‘Lord Slytherin’ seems to have become a lot more interesting than he was while Black was in Azkaban, too, and perhaps it would pay to find out more about him, but for now, Black will set his sights firmly on getting to Hogwarts and having his revenge, then finding Salazar Potter for much of the same.

For a moment, he stands in silence, glaring down at that name as the paper starts to crumple in his hands, before he remembers that there’s more to read. Unfortunately, the contents of Page 4 do not serve to make him any happier.

**_Light Lord Dumbledore gets off on wrong foot with new Lord Potter_** , reads one headline, which Black scans through with a growing sneer. This has Salazar Potter written all over it, he’s sure. Is there anything that bastard _can’t_ get his hands all over? Once he has finished the article, he almost throws the paper away, out into the howling storm to let the winds rip it to shreds in his stead, but is reminded of the other article that he planned to seek out when he catches sight of its headline: **_Lord Slytherin publicly denounces blood purism arguments, claims Salazar Slytherin held no hatred of muggleborns_**.

Now _that_ seems a more intriguing article to read.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning all - I hope everyone is well! As ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts/ideas/opinions/etc., and I certainly hope you enjoy the following chapter.

Harry spends most of the rest of the summer settling into the Wizengamot, learning the very beginnings of wandless magic – by the end of August, he can just about lift a feather – and studying runes. In truth, Harry has always wondered why, despite being a more than accomplished Potions Master himself, Salazar does not seem to have the same passion for potion-making as Harry knows that both himself and Master Snape possess, but the more time he spends learning about runes and warding, the more he starts to realise that maybe Salazar simply has such a preference for _this_ that he doesn’t have the space to get overly excited by potions. Certainly, Harry is fairly sure that his theory is confirmed when Salazar goes off on a half-hour tangent about the application of runes to ward anchors to apply a blanket silencing charm that would…

Alright, Harry might have stopped listening when Salazar started getting too complex for his level of understanding, and it’s then that he realises that Salazar might have the same problem with teaching Harry about runes as Master Snape does with teaching Potions at Hogwarts; they simply cannot bear to drag themselves back to the simplest of levels required for teaching beginners. There’s no denying that Salazar _is_ an incredible teacher, and Harry certainly has learnt a lot from him, but when it comes to runes, he has a much higher tendency to get carried away.

“Maybe,” Harry suggests finally, after Salazar loses him again with discussions of the runes that could be used to create an object which sounds disturbingly similar to the mirror that Harry encountered when Quirrell was after the Philosopher’s Stone, “I should get the textbook that I would be using if I’d taken Study of Ancient Runes as an option, and learn the basics by myself…?”

Salazar smiles sheepishly, clearly understanding why Harry has offered that idea, and nods in agreement, letting his lecture – which Harry can’t help but feel seemed suspiciously as though he was talking from experience – trail off.

“Sorry,” his uncle sighs, running a hand through his hair and pulling a considering frown as he does so, apparently distracted by some other thought for a beat. “…Sometimes I forget…”

Again, he lets his words fade away, tugging lightly at the short strands at the back of his head, and Harry fills in the words in silence. Sometimes, Salazar forgets that it’s Harry he’s talking to, and not one of the other Founders, who surely would have followed him easily. Harry understands, but that doesn’t make the discomforted twisting in his gut any less painful to contend with – not that he’s about to mention that to his uncle, who has enough to worry about without having to hear about how jealous Harry is of the family that Salazar will never see again.

“Well…” the man starts again, dropping his hand back to his side and glancing around in a strangely lost manner, only to startle at the knock on the door. “Come in!”

The door to Salazar’s office opens, and Dudley peers nervously in, glancing between Harry and Salazar with a small frown, as though he can tell that he’s walking in on an awkward moment – but possibly not that his intrusion is still welcome, if the anxious manner in which he bites his lip is anything to go by.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he offers slowly, Salazar shaking his head at once. “I just… I wondered if we could talk?”

Salazar blinks, apparently surprised, but waves him in, and Harry offers his cousin a smile as the door sweeps quietly shut.

“What did you wish to discuss?” Salazar asks, settling back into his chair to clasp his hands in his lap as Dudley drops into the seat next to Harry.

“You,” Dudley admits bluntly, then hesitates. “You and Godric.”

“Ah,” Salazar responds. “Is your father aware that you are here to discuss this?”

Hesitating, Dudley glances towards the door, then shakes his head.

“Very well,” Salazar allows, tilting his head to the side expectantly.

Is this really something to stick around for? Harry isn’t sure, but it seems as though it would be too awkward to get up and leave now, and perhaps he could provide a buffer of sorts for the two of them, to ensure that the conversation doesn’t get out of hand. At least if he stays, he won’t find himself out of the loop if the situation changes.

“Er…” Dudley seems to lose what little confidence he had with the realisation that he will be expected to lead this conversation, but rallies remarkably quickly. “Were you and Godric really, um…?”

“Together?” Salazar drawls, and Harry winces with the realisation that his uncle doesn’t plan on making this an overly pleasant experience for Dudley, perhaps because Uncle Vernon’s snide remarks have been building up substantially over the last week or so, and it looks set to continue that way for the final few days of the holiday. “Yes.”

Swallowing with an audible click, Dudley nods jerkily.

“R – Right,” he stammers, shifting awkwardly. “My dad isn’t – He doesn’t think –”

“I am fully aware of your father’s opinion of my sexuality,” Salazar returns coolly. “While you were petrified, he came to believe that I had personally informed Harry of the matter, and took it upon himself to seek vengeance on Harry’s behalf. I believe the end result was something a little like… this.”

A flick of his fingers, and Harry cannot help but recoil from the swollen mass of bruises and split skin making up his uncle’s features; when he manages to tear his gaze from Salazar’s face, he finds himself hit by the darkened finger-marks ringing Salazar’s throat instead, and beside him, Dudley gasps softly.

“ _Dad_ did that?” his cousin whispers, white-faced.

“He did,” Salazar confirms flatly, waving his hand to dismiss the injuries. “Relatively easy to heal with the right knowledge, but rather painful nonetheless – and certainly the worst he could have managed. Understand, Dudley, that I am not concerned with your father’s opinion any longer – nor your mother’s, for that matter.”

Dudley’s mouth opens and closes several times without sound escaping, while Harry tries to wrap his head around the idea that Uncle Vernon would _do_ something like that. Strangely, he almost doesn’t think that he’s surprised.

“And… mine?” Dudley hedges quietly, clearly wary as he eyes Salazar like an animal on the verge of bolting.

“That remains to be seen,” Salazar replies, voice softening for the first time; Dudley visibly relaxes in response to the warmer tone. “It is negotiable, certainly.”

“Negotiable?” Dudley echoes, eyes flickering briefly in Harry’s direction as though searching for a clue, but Harry has no more idea of Salazar’s meaning than his cousin. “What…?”

“Well, it is partially dependent on what your opinion is,” Salazar starts, examining his fingernails in an overt show of nonchalance. “However, it largely revolves around your willingness to, if necessary, choose Harry over your parents.”

Harry starts at his name, gaping at his uncle in shock and utter bemusement as Dudley glances from him to Salazar and back, obviously no more certain of how to respond than Harry himself.

“Over the last year and a half, I have been refurbishing my family’s old home – Potter Manor,” Salazar explains calmly, as though oblivious to their reactions – though Harry knows that he is certainly more than aware of their bewildered stares. “When it is ready, I will be moving there. Harry will be moving with me.”

Dudley opens his mouth to speak, but Salazar talks over him, tone sharpening pointedly.

“I will not be asking you to move with us if you do not wish to, but it is likely that this change in situation will somewhat escalate tension between myself and your parents. When the time comes, I am asking you to choose my side – and through doing so, Harry’s side – over your parents. Perhaps it is too much for me to ask of a thirteen-year-old, and for that, I apologise, but with the way things are developing, I can only conclude that it is entirely necessary.”

To Harry’s surprise, Dudley’s eyes narrow.

“What do I get out of doing that?” his cousin asks suspiciously, and Harry just about has time to get over the surprise of hearing such a Slytherin question and start to feel offended before Dudley clarifies, “Besides supporting Harry, I mean. Why can’t I stay on good terms with him but support my parents?”

As Harry relaxes, mollified, Salazar settles one leg over the other and cocks his head.

“I’m glad you asked,” he tells Dudley calmly. “Beyond the fact that I doubt your ability to maintain the closeness you desire with both Harry and your parents, and the support that both Harry and myself can offer you as Lords of the Wizengamot, never mind the teaching that I can provide and the fact that you will avoid offending your friend Draco… If I am right about you, Dudley Dursley, then in a few years, you are going to start having questions that you want answered.”

Salazar’s lips curl up into a humourless smile.

“You are going to have questions that you won’t _dare_ mention to your parents – and they certainly won’t be able to answer. You are going to have questions that I will be the _perfect_ person to answer for you – if you are not already starting to wonder them now. Over that time, given your upbringing, you will need support and reassurance that you will not get from your parents. I can provide that for you, and help you to accept the reality of your situation.”

Harry cannot for the life of him decipher Salazar’s words, but Dudley appears white as a sheet, his lips parted soundlessly as he stares at Salazar with wide, horrified eyes.

“No,” he croaks, shaking his head almost desperately. “No, that’s not…”

“So you _do_ know what I’m talking about,” Salazar purrs, his smile taking on an almost malicious glint as he flicks his gaze towards the door before softening as he returns his attention to Dudley – though it does little to make him seem less predatory, Harry reflects. “I’ve shown you all I can, Dudley. You know the consequences of your choice. You can choose your parents, a life of unhappiness and repression, _this_ …”

For a second, the bruises flicker back into place, Dudley flinching from them at once.

“Or you can choose Harry and myself, a life of acceptance and support, freedom and safety, and possibly even – well, who knows? Dudley, I do care about you. I’d rather not see you hurt. I’ll even give you a few days to think about it if you’d like.”

Something is growing in the back of Harry’s mind, a nagging sense that he _knows_ what Salazar is talking about, what Dudley seems to be reading from those silken words, but he can’t quite work out what. Either that, or the idea just seems so unlikely that he keeps dismissing it out of hand – but surely not?

“No, I – I don’t need a few days,” Dudley announces abruptly, shaking his head and sucking in a deep breath. “When the time comes, I’ll choose you and Harry. But – can you maybe answer some questions…?”

“Now?” Salazar finishes kindly, a hint of what almost seems to be sadness flickering through his smile as Dudley glances nervously in Harry’s direction, though Harry notes that his uncle’s gaze stays firmly fixed on his cousin even as Salazar opens his mouth to address Harry instead. “Do you mind leaving for the time being, Harry? I think it’d be better for Dudley and me to have this conversation in private. If you’d like to practice your Seeker drills, the wards are set up to allow for it, though I’d ask that you return by four o’clock. Otherwise, I believe Severus may be planning to send you an assignment soon.”

Slowly, Harry stands, edging his way as gradually from the room as he can feasibly manage while he tries to work out what has just happened. Something seems to have _shifted_ , and although he has a fairly good idea of what, he cannot for the life of him decipher the _why_. There is something between Dudley and Salazar, and as much as something tugs at the edges of Harry’s thoughts, whispering that he can guess _exactly_ what it is, the idea just seems so unfathomable, completely nonsensical when he considers his own memories of past events and conversations, that he cannot help but disregard it altogether. There is something else that he’s missing. There must be.

At any rate, Harry finds himself more concerned by the fact that it seems very much as though Salazar just pressured Dudley into not only choosing between Harry or Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, but also into making the decision that Salazar wanted. As much as Harry appreciates the thought that he won’t lose his cousin when the rift in the Dursley-Potter household inevitably grows into a chasm too wide to cross, he’d rather it not be because Dudley has been coerced into taking a side early.

It’s not that this is the first time that he’s seen Salazar put on that cold, merciless mask to deal with someone, but normally, it’s the likes of Dumbledore, not _Dudley_ , and Harry’s not sure how he feels about that ruthless streaking being directed towards his cousin. Actually, he _does_ know how he feels; it really doesn’t sit well with him.

Would it be too much to sit down and talk to Salazar to make sure that he is aware of Harry’s view on the matter?

Harry spends the rest of the holiday brooding. The tension between Salazar and Dudley is gone – in fact, they seem closer than ever – but in its place lies a tension between Salazar and Harry himself, who cannot quite find the courage to bring up his troubles and so has taken to avoiding his uncle instead while he tries to work out the best course of action. Dudley seems fine – more than, even – so maybe it would be best left alone, and yet Harry doesn’t like the idea of sitting aside and doing nothing. There are too many uncertainties to know for certain what the right thing to do is, however, leaving him floundering with no way to regain himself amidst the confusion.

In the end, Harry is almost grateful to get to the kitchen earlier on 1st September to find Salazar already up and waiting for him, as unsettling as it is to walk into the kitchen and apparently through a neatly erected silencing charm, because as soon as he enters the room, the scraping sound of Salazar sharpening a set of knives at the table screeches against his eardrums.

“Madainn mhath, Harry,” Salazar greets calmly, setting down the blade he has been working on as Harry gapes at the set.

Those are not kitchen knives, that much he knows. He’s willing to bet that there’s something special about them as well, given that Salazar feels the need to sharpen them by hand rather than with magic.

“Er…” he manages, and can find nothing else to say.

“Dudley wishes to learn how to fight physically,” Salazar tells him by way of explanation, and luckily continues before Harry can wrap his head around the idea that Salazar might be planning to hand his inexperienced cousin deadly weapons, “And I thought it wise to sharpen my own skills – if you’ll excuse the pun – before I consider agreeing to teach him anything more than hand-to-hand combat. If you’d like to join his lessons, then you certainly may, although first, I felt it prudent to have a little talk.”

Gesturing to a seat, Salazar waits in silence while Harry sits; Harry notices for the first time the two wands settled beside the set of knives, recognising Salazar’s own wand and another that seems vaguely familiar, but decides not to comment as he lowers himself warily into a chair and looks expectantly to his uncle.

“I am rather uncomfortably aware that you’ve been avoiding me, Harry,” Salazar begins, settling back to regard Harry with a disquieting stare that Harry has seen him direct at others but has never been on the receiving end of himself. “I imagine it comes as a result of my conversation with Dudley and the way in which you perceive me to have handled it. I will not tell you what Dudley and I discussed in private, but what I will say is this: the discomfort I caused him then will likely save him a lot of pain in the future. He has recognised and accepted this.”

Shifting nervously, Harry considers opening his mouth to speak, but decides against it. In all honesty, he isn’t entirely sure that any sound would have come out if he’d tried.

“I am beginning to feel that over the past few years, I have been a little… soft. I have allowed things to stay only on the edge of my control, and now I am realising that this may lead to your detriment, which I find to be unacceptable. I have stayed passive in the Wizengamot; that is changing. I have stayed out of Hogwarts business; that, too, is changing. I have let this situation within our family drift along at its own pace, but I can no longer tolerate that.”

Finally, Harry finds his voice.

“Why?” he asks in barely more than a whisper.

“Riddle is not dead,” Salazar responds steadily, as though he has not, in five simple syllables, shattered Harry’s world. “I am now quite certain that he remains a viable threat, and our position at the moment is too weak for me to feel confident that we would survive relatively unscathed, should he return. We need to strengthen what we have and then seek to build on it as efficiently as possible, but for that, we need certainty in our foundations.”

_You-Know-Who is not dead._ Harry has known of Salazar’s suspicions in the past, but after the whole fiasco with the Philosopher’s Stone, he somehow believed the situation dealt with once and for all – and admittedly, there was the business with the basilisk, but that was a younger version of You-Know-Who, so Harry never thought that it might mean anything. Now, he’s really not so sure.

“So what’s the plan?” he hears himself ask, instead of voicing the ‘ _How?_ ’ spinning around in his head.

It must be the right response, because Salazar nods in approval.

“Now that the family situation is in the process of being rectified, we can begin to look outwards. First and foremost, we will need to examine our finances. We will need to build as much capital as possible, as quickly as possible, and as such, I ask you to inform me whenever you hear of any opportunities with potential to develop into something of financial benefit, understood?”

Swallowing, Harry jerks his head in wordless acknowledgement, no doubt in his mind that Salazar is talking about war funds.

“I will be networking as Lord Slytherin, and as part of that, I will reach out to the Dark Lord. Eventually, I will need to let my identity be known; fewer would be willing to trust a faceless ally, no matter the House. You will, of course, be doing the same, but I would like you to pay particular attention to influencing your fellow students.”

For a moment, Harry can only stare blankly at his uncle, unable to fathom what use his peers would be, but then it hits him; the majority of magical society comes through Hogwarts, so being able to control the narrative within the castle would bode well for the future, and beyond that, several of the other students in his year alone come from powerful families, never mind the school as a whole. Through their children, parents can be influenced.

“You will have to be careful, however,” Salazar continues, “As it would not do for current members of the Wizengamot to take much notice of your movements within school yet. Outside of the political sphere, there is much else to work on where your magical and physical skills are concerned. You are physically fit, but I _would_ highly recommend joining Dudley in learning how to fight without magic – and later, to fight both physically and magically at the same time. I know that you work hard at school, and that you enjoy learning, but now is the time to learn everything that you can about any topic that you come across; you will never be able to predict what could come in useful. Ask Severus to teach you how to duel.”

“Haven’t you already…?” Harry starts, confused, but trails off when Salazar shakes his head.

“I have shown you the basics of defence, but we do not have enough contact for you to progress at the speed that I fear will be necessary,” the man explains, sighing. “I would say that he is a better dueller than I, regardless. I would also ask him to tell you everything that he knows about Riddle and the war, if I were you. The more knowledge you have, the better.”

Briefly, Salazar pauses, reaching for a glass of water that Harry had not previously noticed to sip from it before setting it gently back down and returning his attention to Harry. Harry himself can only stare blankly at his uncle as it sinks in that they are genuinely facing the possibility of You-Know-Who returning at some point – and who even _knows_ when? It could be many years’ time, or it could be tomorrow, for all they can predict at the moment, and no matter when it is, _they’re not_ _ready_.

“I have managed to assemble a ward extension of sorts over Hogsmeade to alert me if you are hurt, but have not found a way to apply this to the track along which the Hogwarts Express travels. Therefore, I ask you to _please_ not be attacked over the course of the journey.”

That startles a laugh from Harry, which in turn earns him a small twitch of his uncle’s lips as his amusement pulls him temporarily away from the panicked whirl within his head.

“Beyond that, I believe all I have left to say is that I have already held a discussion with Dudley over the relevant points of this, so the two of you should be largely on the same page.”

Unable to hold back a small frown, Harry tries to push down his slight hurt at the idea that Salazar may have broached this topic with Dudley before him, but his uncle picks up on it easily.

“I planned to have the conversations separately with both of you, and it just happened to be convenient that I discuss it with him the other day. I was rather hoping that you would stop avoiding me of your own accord before we had this talk.”

Harry almost winces, a little guilty at the reminder, but Salazar is watching him in obvious amusement, clearly unbothered by Harry’s recent behaviour. If anything, there’s a hint of shrewd understanding in the gaze that he fixes on Harry, which would have been discomforting from anyone else, but from Salazar himself, Harry finds it to be strangely reassuring. Perhaps, he’s simply used to it; he thinks he needs the touch of familiarity when his world has just been flipped on its head.

“Of course,” Salazar begins again, far softer despite the sudden solemnity of his gaze, “I must stress that none of this should take over your life so completely that you forget to be happy. Do you understand that, Harry?”

Swallowing around the lump that has formed inexplicably in his throat, Harry jerks his head in a stiff nod. Salazar hasn’t given a reason for his words, but it still seems to float between them, all too tangible.

_Take advantage of the opportunity to be happy while you can._

By the time Harry boards the Hogwarts Express at Dudley’s side, he has already run through everything that Salazar told him that morning a good ten times in his head, and with each repetition, it doesn’t get any easier to think about. Salazar is now _certain_ that You-Know-Who is not only _not dead_ , but in fact likely to return to plague the entirety of the Isles again at some point in the foreseeable future. The more Harry turns that thought over, the more he wonders if Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban might have something to do with an imminent revival of the man who killed Harry’s parents.

_Or maybe, You-Know-Who is already back and hiding in the shadows_ , something whispers sinisterly, and not for the first time at that – but Salazar has already assured him that such an eventuality is rather unlikely. Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that stepping onto the Hogwarts Express and away from his family feels a little more poignant this year and, before he disappears down the train corridor after Dudley to find their friends, he can’t stop himself from twisting to take in not only Salazar’s features, but those of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon as well. What if everything falls apart this year? What if something terrible happens, and this is the last time that he sees them?

“Hey,” Dudley murmurs, settling a hand on his shoulder to squeeze gently, and Harry startles with the realisation that his cousin has turned back, presumably after Harry spent too long staring at his relatives. “It’s going to be alright, Haz.”

For a moment, Harry can’t bring himself to move, unable to find it within himself to believe Dudley – his cousin has no more way of knowing that than Harry himself – but then Salazar glances away from his conversation with Lucius to offer a quiet, reassuring smile, understanding clear in his eyes. His uncle obviously knows the struggle that Harry is experiencing, but the wordless message is clear: _do not worry_.

Something sharp and solid stabs itself into Harry’s throat, and he manages a jerky nod, unsure whether it is aimed at Salazar or Dudley or both, then allows himself to be tugged lightly down the train to find Hermione and Draco coming up from the other direction.

“Most compartments are full down that way,” Draco tells them simply. “I move we just find the first compartment with enough room for all five of us back your way – no harm in networking a little if we have to.”

Harry nods in automatic agreement, mind flashing to his conversation with Salazar this morning, and turns to lead the way, peering subtly through each and every door until he spots one with only a single occupant: a shabbily-dressed man asleep with his wand clutched tightly to him, held as though he’d be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

“New professor?” Hermione guesses quietly, Harry offering an absent-minded nod; Lockhart refused to come back at the end of last year, likely due to a combination of the attacks in the earlier part of the school year and the prank that the whole school pulled on him in the second half. “Well, nothing wrong in getting a head-start on him, is there?”

“Good point,” Draco agrees. “Unless you two have any objections – Harry, Dudley?”

“Might as well,” Dudley returns. “In we go, then, Haz.”

Shrugging, Harry opens the door carefully and steps through, unwilling to wake the unknown man but more than happy to get out of the filling corridor as quickly as possible.

“I heard Neville might be running a few minutes behind schedule,” Draco tells them as they load their trunks onto the luggage rack above the seats. “Say, is that his name, do you think?”

Harry squints up at the scrawled writing on the label of what can only be the new professor’s belongings, trying to work out where he recognises the name from as Dudley snorts.

“No, I’m sure _Remus J Lupin_ is some other random person.”

“Prat,” Draco bites back instantly, Harry ignoring the spat that starts up between his cousin and the blond as he realises where he knows that name from – hearing it aloud must have done the trick – and finds himself somewhat lost for words, struggling to work out how he feels about this newcomer.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Hermione murmurs, stepping closer to brush their shoulders in light reassurance as Draco and Dudley squabble in the background.

“He was a friend of my father’s,” he tells her quietly, not bothering to mention Salazar’s suspicions that the man is a werewolf, and her lips part in a soft ‘o’ of understanding, her eyebrows lifting. “I was just thinking… Maybe he’ll have stories he can tell me, from term-time.”

He hesitates there, unwilling to share the rest of what he’s thinking, but Hermione only nods her encouragement, so Harry forges onwards.

“But what if I’m not like he expected? I know it’s stupid, but what if I’ve turned out different to what my dad would have wanted? I mean, Salazar was around until they were fifteen, and then… It’s another five years until I was born. How much changed in that time?”

Hermione reaches out, lacing their fingers together to squeeze gently. Harry clings to the comfort, feeling strangely uncertain despite knowing that his father was actually far from the nicest of people during his school years. Why should he care what a man who mercilessly bullied his favourite teacher thinks of him?

“Harry,” Hermione whispers, “From what I’ve heard of your father, I imagine he’d have loved you no matter what – and certainly he’d never be disappointed in you. And I doubt this Lupin fellow will have any expectations for you that you have not already far surpassed.”

Lips twitching faintly, Harry turns to raise an eyebrow.

“Flatterer,” he accuses, but doesn’t bother to hide how grateful he is; she offers a soft smile in return to his teasing, concerned eyes flickering over his face.

“You’ve been quiet since we all met up,” she ventures carefully. “Is something…?”

“I…” Harry hesitates, glancing over to where Draco and Dudley have given up prodding each other and are now laughing over something or other; there’s no way that Draco would be willing to talk to Dudley, never mind joke with him, if not for Harry’s own input, he realises faintly. “I’ll tell you when Neville gets here. Dudley knows, but I…”

“It’s alright,” Hermione assures him. “You don’t need to say any more on it now. I’ll wait.”

Relieved, Harry nods and drops down into a seat to watch the flow of students in the corridor beyond the compartment door, waiting for Neville to appear as he flips his wand over and over in his hand. In his head, he steadily rehearses the steps required to brew a Strengthening Solution, then moves onto the most common mistakes, the flaws in the textbook, and the adjustments that he’d be required to make in order to pass a written exam on that particular potion with full marks – because the syllabus couldn’t just give the most efficient recipe with the most effective results, could it?

Finally, the door flies open and Neville stumbles in, panting for breath and shaking his head even as the train whistle blasts.

“Sorry I’m late,” their friend mutters as he stows his trunk away. “Our Floo network went down last night, so we were going to see if we could get it fixed in time, but we couldn’t in the end. Gran didn’t feel confident apparating us in, so we had to take the Knight Bus.”

“Ouch,” Draco winces, just as Neville catches sight of Lupin and performs an almost comical double take.

“Er… Who’s this?”

“Oh – meet Remus Lupin,” Hermione jumps in to inform him. “He used to be a friend of Harry’s father. We think he might be a new professor.”

“One of your dad’s friends?” Dudley echoes, blinking as he twists to face Harry. “Why didn’t you say that earlier?”

Amused, Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I did,” he tells his cousin. “You two were too busy with your catfight.”

“ _Catfight_?” Draco splutters at once, but Dudley only laughs and shrugs, which for some reason seems to appease the blond a little.

_How cute_ , Harry reflects sarcastically, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

“Anyway,” Hermione announces, cutting through the teasing with a fond smile as the train starts to move away from the station and Neville finds a seat, “Harry had something that he was going to tell us.”

_Right._

“Yeah,” Harry coughs, shifting nervously and glancing briefly to Dudley for reassurance, gaining an encouraging nod in response. “My uncle… He says he’s pretty certain that You-Know-Who isn’t dead. That he’ll be back at some point.”

Any lightness within the carriage is gone in an instant.

“Back?” Neville echoes, face white; Harry can only nod jerkily and summon a shadow of an apologetic smile for his friend, who he knows has suffered as a direct result of the cruelty of You-Know-Who’s followers.

“Salazar doesn’t think we’re prepared enough at the moment,” Harry continues, with a quick glance at the sleeping Lupin to ensure that they won’t be overheard before ploughing onwards. “So he’s got me and Dudley training to fight, learning as much as we can – and I’m meant to be influencing other students politically this year, and networking in the Wizengamot… At some point, he’s going to stop hiding that he’s Lord Slytherin. He doesn’t know _when_ , but he wants us to be as prepared as possible, or…”

“So the war isn’t _actually_ over?” Draco croaks, looking as terrified as Harry has been feeling all day, and seems to hesitate over whether or not to say whatever is on the tip of his tongue before it comes spilling out. “My father, he’s –”

“Working with Salazar now,” Harry fills in firmly, earning a shaky nod from Draco in return. “Salazar wants to create an opposition to You-Know-Who that isn’t just following Dumbledore – an alternative to You-Know-Who for people to follow, and with a Grey stance that people from both the Dark and the Light can rally around to get through the conflict.”

“And afterwards?” Hermione asks quietly, to Harry’s surprise; when he glances over, her eyes are narrowed in suspicion. “What happens once You-Know-Who is defeated for good? Does he go for Dumbledore? Does he take control of Magical Britain –?”

“No!” Harry yelps, shocked. “No, he wouldn’t do that.”

She doesn’t appear particularly convinced, so Harry tries for a slightly different approach that doesn’t so much require her to trust Salazar, knowing that she hasn’t ever entirely moved past him being Salazar Slytherin, the supposedly evil Founder of Hogwarts.

“That’s not his… style, really,” he tells her honestly, meeting her gaze. “If he wanted power, he wouldn’t go about it that way. He’s too attached to subtlety and nuance for that.”

“Not everyone wants to take over the world, Hermione,” Dudley offers gently, an impish smile twitching at his lips. “That’s just you.”

She laughs, and the tension that has crept in breaks once more.

“I know you don’t really trust him,” Harry begins, waving away her protests. “No, I understand. But give him a chance to prove that he’s not a megalomaniac hellbent on world domination, yeah?”

For a moment, she stays quiet, biting her lip as she eyes him nervously, before shrugging and offering a cautious nod.

“Alright,” she agrees softly. “I just… I don’t want it to be from the frying pan into the fire. I’ve read terrible things about the war, but I don’t want to end up with…”

“I’m not sure you _can_ get a worse alternative,” Neville mutters, gaze somewhat unfocused as he stares off into the distance, and there’s nothing Harry can do but reach over to wrap an arm around the Gryffindor, knowing that Neville is likely thinking of his parents. “Besides learning to fight, what do you need us to do?”

The next few hours are spent discussing their plans for the year, outlining everything that Harry – in conjunction with Salazar, admittedly – has decided that he needs to get done this year. When the sweets trolley finally comes by, however, they agree to leave it for the time being to avoid getting too worked up over it and, with the aid of sweets and good company, the atmosphere in the carriage slowly lightens, Harry feeling a weight slide of his shoulders as his worries start to fade away.

Perhaps time passes quicker when they’re talking about less stressful matters, because when the train starts to slow, it doesn’t feel like nearly enough time has passed for them to be drawing into Hogsmeade station – only it isn’t dark outside the window, yet, beyond the effect of the storm that they’ve been travelling through for some time, and they’re still surrounded by fields, so perhaps they haven’t actually _reached_ Hogsmeade yet.

“Have we broken down?” Dudley asks uncertainly, glancing around as the lights in the compartment start to flicker. “Can a magical train _actually_ break down?”

“Apparently…” Hermione murmurs, frowning, but Harry’s attention is caught by the frost growing on the windows and the clouds that billow through the air with each exhale.

“I don’t like this,” he tells them nervously, rubbing his arms in an effort to calm the goose-bumps growing on them, but to little avail; the air simply seems to be dropping in temperature with each step. “Something isn’t right here.”

When he glances back to the window, he finds that he can see nothing but blackness past the rain that lashes against the frozen glass. On a whim, he reaches for his mirror, but just as he brings it up, the train lurches to a sudden halt and it goes tumbling from his grasp; he scrambles for it, only to lose sight of both it and everything else as the lights both inside the carriage and out snuff out, plunging the train into complete darkness.

“This isn’t good, is it?” Draco whispers nervously. “Oh, Merlin – don’t let this be Sirius Black…”

Harry freezes, the idea not having occurred to him. He hasn’t thought much about the man all journey, in fact, which makes something of a difference compared to the last month or so.

Just this morning, Salazar asked him not to be attacked while on the train and, at the time, Harry thought it was quite a funny joke. Now, however, he just feels sick.

“There are people coming on board, I think,” Neville whispers, and Harry freezes for a moment, a chill running down his spine – though that’s maybe just a result of the air temperature – before he realises that _people_ is more than one person, so it can’t be Black.

“I _really_ don’t like this,” Hermione announces, her voice trembling just a little. “Who’s closest to the teacher? Should we wake him?”

“Definitely,” Harry agrees. “I think he was…”

Fumbling through the darkness, he finds the seats on the other side of the carriage and gropes along until he finds Lupin’s head, and then his shoulder. Warily, he shakes, jumping back as soon as the stranger jerks beneath his touch and scrambling for his own wand, only to relax when all Lupin does is light his wand and peer around at them all.

“Stay there,” he tells them all hoarsely, which Harry has absolutely _zero_ problems with, regardless of how little he knows or trusts the man before them.

Reaching behind him, he’s more than relieved when warm fingers find his to tug him back into a huddle with the rest of his friends. With baited breath, he watches Lupin turn towards the door, only to jump when it opens before the potential professor can reach it, revealing a towering, cloaked figure with its face entirely hidden in shadow, a hint of a rotting, scabbed hand creeping out from the black fabric that drifts around the creature for a second before sliding out of sight.

_Dementor_ , Harry registers vaguely, having had the concept explained to him by Salazar earlier in the summer. Before he can recall everything else his uncle told him about the beings, however, the dementor draws in a deep, rattling breath, cold sweeping through the apartment and into Harry’s bones as it seems to attempt to suck more from the room than air itself. The chill slithers onwards, through Harry’s limbs and into his chest, reaching tendrils into his very heart…

He feels as though he’s falling – no, not falling. He feels as though something is dragging him down, into the deep, dark depths of some terrible ocean with not a hint of light, until suddenly something green sears his vision, a terrible scream echoing through his skull; he tries to close his eyes, but all he gets is vicious flame, burning his back as fear and pain build with the knowledge that he is trapped, the white fog that swirls around him somehow worse than the rest of it –

“– come on, Haz!”

“Harry, wake up!”

Harry bolts upright, gasping for breath as he scrambles to extinguish the flames burning into his back – but there’s no fire, and indeed, no heat at all. All he feels is cold, his fingers trembling before his very eyes as he lifts them to accept Dudley’s hand and allow his cousin to pull him up.

“What –?” is as far as he gets, his tongue thick and unwieldy, before he spots the unfamiliar man standing in the compartment and everything comes rushing back. “Dementors. Why – What –?”

“They’re looking for Sirius Black,” the man – Lupin, his father’s friend, he remembers – tells him, lifting a bar of chocolate to break off a large chunk and hand it to Harry, who takes it gratefully. “Eat that. I’m going to talk to the driver.”

They’re moving again, Harry registers faintly as he lifts the chocolate to take small bites and savours the warmth that each one brings him. Briefly, he wonders how long it has been since the dementor came along, but ultimately, he’s not sure that he wants to know.

“Come on, Haz, sit down,” Dudley coaxes, handing Harry his mirror and guiding him over to a seat to lower him into it; Harry doesn’t have it in him to protest the patronisation, settling instead for sitting in silence and eating his chocolate bit by bit as the train rattles onwards until, finally, the goose-bumps on his arms start to fade.

He just doesn’t understand what it was he saw and heard under the dementor’s influence. That is to say, he recognises the searing heat of dragon-fire mere feet from his skin, but he doesn’t know what to think of the green light that had filled his vision before that, never mind that terrible scream. They must be memories, if he recalls what Salazar has told him about dementors correctly, but he can’t remember ever experiencing something like that.

“Are you alright?” Hermione asks softly once the chocolate is finished, resting a hand on his shoulder as she looks him up and down. “You just collapsed – we were so _worried_ …”

“I’m fine now,” Harry assures her, though he’s not sure that he manages to convince anyone; he certainly doesn’t succeed in convincing himself. “Salazar’s told me about dementors before. Some people just have worse reactions than others.”

He doesn’t feel like mentioning _why_ that’s the case, but to his relief, Hermione accepts his explanation with a shaky nod – though her bottom lip, white where her teeth are digging harshly into it, speaks of her continued concern.

“What happened after I collapsed?” he asks, more to distract her than out of his own curiosity.

“Oh, Lupin told the – what did you call it?”

“Dementor,” Dudley fills in helpfully. “They guard Azkaban.”

“ _That_ ’s a dementor?” Draco demands, face whitening. “Oh, _Merlin_ …”

Nodding grimly, Harry turns back to Hermione, waiting for her to continue.

“Right,” she coughs. “Lupin told the dementor to go away – said something about us not hiding Sirius Black – and when it didn’t, he conjured some white… _thing_ , and it left, as though it was running away.”

“The white thing was a Patronus,” Draco offers, Hermione twisting a little to blink at him in surprise as Harry lifts his chin in silent understanding.

“A Patronus?” she echoes, clearly uncertain. “I’ve… I think I’ve read about them, but I don’t…?”

“We’ll tell you all about them tomorrow – and dementors,” Harry promises, earning himself a small but grateful smile. “But I think we should look at learning how to conjure a Patronus. Personally, _I_ don’t fancy going through that again.”

His friends’ murmurs of subdued agreement are interrupted by the hoarse clearing of a throat from the doorway, Harry twisting to find Lupin leaning against the frame to watch them.

“I can teach you all, if you’d like,” the man offers, stepping inside to hold out more chocolate to all of them. “What year are you all in?”

“Third year,” Dudley tells him quietly, taking a few squares with a grateful smile.

“Ah,” Lupin replies, frowning just a little in consideration. “Well, the Patronus is quite a difficult spell – many adults struggle with it – so I’m not sure that I’d be happy to teach the whole year, though I might think about raising it with your classes and allowing you all to decide. Otherwise, I’m sure it can be done as an extra-curricular activity.”

That sounds good enough to Harry – and certainly, it’s a confirmation that this is their new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Nodding his thanks, he settles back to finish the extra chocolate that he has been given and ignores the way that Professor Lupin’s gaze flickers repeatedly in his direction. If the man wants to discuss his father – or mother – then he’d be very much up for that, but the conversation certainly won’t be happening today, given recent events. All he wants at the moment is to get some food into himself then burrow under his quilt in Ravenclaw Tower and sleep the remaining fear and discomfort away.

When the train finally pulls into Hogsmeade Station, the storm has not lessened in the slightest, and Harry finds himself scurrying along behind Hermione, his robes drawn up over his head to shield himself from the wind and rain, to get into a carriage as quickly as they can. When he gets to one, Dudley bundles in on his heels, nudging him out of the way to help Draco in as Neville and Hermione drop, panting, into seats, and only once Harry has sat himself does he remember what Salazar told him about the carriages over the summer.

“You know these don’t move on their own?” he announces breathlessly, and Dudley turns his focus away from squeezing out his hair to squint at Harry immediately, visibly bemused.

“…They don’t?” their resident Hufflepuff ventures.

“Nah,” Harry confirms, shaking his head. “There are these things called thestrals; they’re a bit like horses, but they can only be seen by people who’ve seen death. There’s a whole herd in the forest.”

Neville shifts a little nervously.

“They’re nothing bad themselves,” Harry adds quickly, offering his friend a reassuring smile. “They do have a bad reputation because of the association, but apparently they’re actually quite nice, and they’re very good navigators. And they can fly.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” Dudley tells him suspiciously, but Hermione shakes her head, smiling in obvious amusement.

“I’ve read about them,” she offers. “They’re quite interesting, though I’ll admit that the whole… _death_ thing is a little disconcerting.”

Slowly, Dudley nods, seeming to mull it over before returning his attention to Harry.

“So how come you know that they’re pulling the carriages?”

“Salazar told me,” Harry admits freely. “I got this feeling last year that there was more to them than it looked like, so I asked. Apparently Helga Hufflepuff used to breed them, and they were very useful for bringing students to Hogwarts – or something like that.”

Draco opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again, expression closing off into the same mask as Harry has become used to seeing within the Wizengamot, mostly among the Dark families. Confused, Harry examines his posture, trying to decipher what might have led to such a shift, but cannot pick anything obvious enough, and nor can he work out the meaning behind the pointed stare that Draco fixes him with a few minutes later. Hopefully, he’ll have a chance to talk to the blond about it tomorrow.

By the time the feast finally starts, however, Harry has already entirely forgotten Draco’s strange behaviour, caught up in the news that the Ministry, in – it would seem – all of its infinite _stupidity_ , has seen fit to send dementors to Hogwarts. While Harry can see that, yes, the castle will indeed be safer from Sirius Black with those merciless, soul-sucking creatures around, he thinks he’d honestly rather take his chances with the powerful mass-murderer who killed his parents and is out for his blood.

Learning to cast the Patronus Charm will have to become priority number one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madainn mhath is 'Good morning' in Scottish Gaelic - madainn (pronounced kind of like 'ma-din') being morning, math ('ma') being good; put them together for _madainn mhath_ (math becomes mhath, pronounced 'va'), et voila. 
> 
> One other thing to say is that my mum is kind enough to proof-read this fic alongside [Endriya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endriya/pseuds/Endriya), and one of her comments on this particularly chapter was that she doesn't like Salazar - I wonder why...


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning all! Some good news - I have now passed my driving test, Saracens (the rugby team I support) have made the European Champions Cup Semi-Finals against all odds, and said match is for once free-to-view on Channel 4 today! Some bad news - I'm now the only person under the age of forty in my house, and will continue to be for a little over a week; I am now two days into the longest period I will ever have spent away from my twin. What a... delightful and entirely unterrifying thought.

The Divination classroom is… Well, it’s strange, to say the least. The longer Harry stares around, the more he doubts that this place could possibly be a place of learning, with its clutter of rounded tables, offensively-patterned armchairs and squat pouffes, all bathed in a dull, rosy glow emanating only from scarf-covered lamps, with thick, opaque curtains draped across the windows. Incense pervades the thick, stuffy air, seeming to stick to the sweat that prickles over Harry’s skin.

“Merlin…” Neville moans next to him, obviously despairing. “This is _hideous_ …”

Harry bites back a snort, settling instead for a nod of weary agreement as he glances back towards the trapdoor; perhaps it wouldn’t be too late to back out of this and spend the hour brewing instead? _No_ , he scolds himself. _It’s important to stay open-minded._

Unfortunately, the sleep-inducing combination of darkness, warmth and perfume has him swaying on his feet already, and Professor Trelawney hasn’t even appeared yet. Harry suspects that she plans to make a dramatic entrance, but he isn’t feeling particularly like humouring one at the moment.

As it transpires, he’s rather more correct than he hoped to be.

“Welcome,” a soft, misty voice murmurs from within the deepest shadows of the already-dingy room, drifting throughout the enclosed space. “How nice to see you in the physical world at last.”

Try as he might, Harry cannot resist the urge to roll his eyes.

The rest of her speech is just as dramatic as Master Snape’s was two years ago but, to Harry, it falls short of the mark in terms of effect, seeming more comprised of drivel than intrigue. He can’t ignore the impression that she’s dressing it all up to seem more mysterious than it is and, by the time she sends them all to get teacups, Harry has to admit that he’s fairly disappointed.

“Well…” Terry sighs, grimacing, and Harry finds that he can only nod in silent agreement.

 _This_ , he thinks, _is going to be a long and disappointing lesson._

To his surprise, however, things start to get interesting not long after that, when Professor Trelawney sweeps in to peer dramatically into Harry’s cup and gasps, hand flying to her mouth as she pales in the face of Harry’s indecipherable dregs.

“My _dear_ …” she whispers, fingers trembling as she peers at him, bespectacled eyes wide with horror. “ _Not_ a happy cup, no…”

Harry’s automatic response is scepticism but, somehow, he doesn’t think that Salazar would be too impressed if he didn’t _attempt_ to listen so, with an internal sigh, he meets her pitying gaze.

“What does it show?”

Leaning in to show him the cup, she starts to point out various nonsensical shapes with a shaking hand.

“The falcon… You have a deadly enemy, my dear.”

That is accurate, Harry has to admit, but he doubts that it’s news to anyone.

“The serpent, here on the side of the cup – treachery in the near future. The skull, beneath it – danger in your path…”

The so-called ‘serpent’ looks more like a simple ‘S’, in Harry’s opinion, but that in itself _does_ hold credence. There’s a lot going on in Harry’s life to do with people whose names are comprised of large amounts of sibilance.

“I thought the skull was a lamp,” Terry admits, and Professor Trelawney hums.

“Beneath the serpent, it would make sense – a secret to be revealed, yes…”

A little unnerved, Harry shifts and tries to pretend that he can’t feel Neville staring at him. Salazar certainly has some secrets, and Harry isn’t sure that he’d like any of them to be revealed, big or small. No, that wouldn’t be good at all.

“A thimble here – changes at home… Combined with the falcon, not a good sign at all… And then –”

Professor Trelawney lets out a small scream, the cup dropping to shatter on the floor; Harry jumps, his heart skipping a beat then kicking into double-time, rapid-fire beats pounding in his ears. He’s allowed himself to get caught up in the reading, almost slipping into a mindset of outright _believing_ it, and as much as he tries to remind himself that most of this lesson has been bullshit, he can’t quite convince himself.

“My dear boy…” Professor Trelawney moans, clutching at her heart as Harry attempts to remain unfazed before the alarmed stares of his classmates. “No, it’s kinder not to say… Don’t ask me…”

In all honesty, Harry isn’t even sure he _wants_ to ask, but all the same, he swallows to wet his throat, hearing it click as he does so, and opens his mouth to croak out:

“What is it?”

When Professor Trelawney’s hand flashes out to catch his arm, he jumps.

“You have the Grim!” she cries, voice thin and reedy.

_Oh._

Harry can’t summon any kind of response to that, so he simply sits in shaken silence until she moves on, unable to ignore the prickling gazes of everyone else in the room. The Grim – a dark, spectral hound, the ultimate omen of death – has appeared in his teacup and, try as he might to convince himself that Tasseomancy is utter nonsense, he can’t deny that, given the circumstances, it doesn’t seem entirely doubtable.

“Harry?” Terry asks gently, nudging him, and he lifts his gaze to find the entire table staring at him in concern. “It’s rubbish, mate – look, it’s more like a donkey.”

Lisa nods very frantically, but Harry finds his gaze drawn to Neville, their eyes meeting. It was only yesterday that Harry told his friend about You-Know-Who’s potential return, and Neville looks as terrified as a growing part of Harry feels.

“Yeah,” he manages weakly, tearing his gaze from Neville’s fearful countenance and summoning a grin for the rest of them. “She’s been making up nonsense the whole lesson, hasn’t she?”

As soon as he gets a chance, he’ll talk to Salazar about this. His uncle will know what to do – and how seriously to take it.

That afternoon, Salazar listens in calm silence on the other end of their two-way mirrors and does not interrupt once as Harry, now far calmer than he was on leaving Professor Trelawney’s classroom, outlines the events of his first Divination lesson. To Harry’s relief, his uncle does not seem overly concerned by the mention of the Grim – only a little resigned.

“What I should have thought to tell you,” he begins as soon as Harry has finished his account, “Is that Divination magic is somewhat self-fulfilling. It relies on the belief – conscious or otherwise – of those who would be affected by the predicted events. Therefore, I would advise you to understand that such things will only hold credence if you allow them to, and as such to put everything that you have told me out of your mind, as though it never happened.”

Harry swallows, uncertain as to whether he will actually be capable of simply _forgetting_ that one of his new teachers has predicted his death on the first day of the new school year. It simply isn’t the kind of thing that leaves your mind without some serious muscle power and perhaps a little magic to help it along the way, and when he jerks his head in a nod, the action is stiff and shaky.

“If it helps,” Salazar adds, obviously seeing right through him, “Prophecy is really the only form of Divination magic with any true power, and even that relies on belief. Tasseomancy, Cartomancy, and the vast majority of that which you will learn in your Divination lessons are little more than cheap tricks; most of the magic involved simply comes from picking up on what you already subconsciously expect to see.”

Salazar draws in a breath, fixing Harry with piercing gaze, then lets the air back out in a soft sigh.

“You are worried about Riddle and Sirius Black; hence, the Grim, the falcon and potentially the skull. Things are indeed changing at home, which more than accounts for the thimble – and on that note, I am fairly confident that we will be ready to move into Potter Manor in August next year. The serpent, as you say, is indeed more likely to be an ‘S’, although snakes are hardly out of the –”

“August?” Harry blurts out, unable to help himself as he tries to decide whether or not such a date is sooner than he expected; the refurbishments have been taking so long that Harry had almost started to believe that they would last forever.

“August,” Salazar confirms, a fondly amused smile curling at the edge of his lips. “Once I have finished work on the warding.”

Perhaps it’s not so much that the date itself is a surprise, and more that it feels strange to have a date in the first place, when Harry has become so used to having only a vague ‘in a few years’ or simply ‘soon’ to give him any indication of when he’ll be moving into his family home – into the home that both his father and Salazar grew up in.

“ _Brilliant_ ,” he breathes, a beam spreading across his cheeks to split his face in two, and Salazar’s own smile softens at once.

“Have you had any other new classes?” his uncle prompts gently. “And who is your Defence teacher this year?”

At once, Harry perks up.

“Yeah, I’ve had Arithmancy – that was _incredible_ … The Defence teacher’s Remus Lupin, but I haven’t had him yet.”

Salazar’s eyebrows rise at once.

“Remus Lupin,” he repeats slowly, almost seeming to taste the name before speaking it. “I’ve told you that he was a friend of James’s, haven’t I?”

Nodding, Harry feels his insecurities come flooding back and has to bite down on his lip for a few seconds to stifle them before remembering that this is _Salazar_ and forging ahead to admit the doubts on his mind.

“Part of me wants to ask him for stories,” he confesses, “But I don’t really want to hear about the terrible things my dad did at school, just dressed up all nicely…”

Salazar grimaces, but for once doesn’t seem to have anything to say to make Harry feel better. Instead, after a few moments of silence, he opens his mouth to speak with his eyes trained on some distant point outside the mirror’s view, and for a beat longer, no sound emerges.

“I have never hidden the truth of James’s behaviour at school from you, and I do not intend to start now,” he declares haltingly, each word slightly strained, “But I do ask you not to let that alone guide your impression of your father.”

There is a shadow behind the smile that Salazar offers, something dark and sad that tightens Harry’s throat to see.

“Perhaps you could ask Professor Lupin about his later years of life; I have heard that he matured a great deal from the age of seventeen onwards.”

That Salazar wasn’t around to see that change goes unsaid, and for a moment, silence falls between them, neither able to summon the words to fill it in the wake of what has already been aired.

“Can I… tell you about Arithmancy?” Harry asks quietly after some time; Salazar’s relief is so tangible that it hurts.

“I’d be delighted to hear it,” his uncle tells him, and then the melancholy air is gone, a warm smile in its place as though the last minute or two never happened.

In all honesty, Harry isn’t sure that brushing over conversations like this is really the healthiest way to go about things, but when it comes to Salazar, he’ll take it over what happened last year. Truthfully, he thinks he’d take _anything_ over what happened last year – even Salazar returning to the 10th Century.

Shaking such worries away, he collects his thoughts and starts to explain Arithmancy as taught by Professor Vector. They’re starting with learning the sorts of concepts that muggles learn in maths at high school, some of which Harry has already learnt simply through keeping up with his non-magical education and some of which will be new even to the likes of him and Hermione.

“We’re going to spend most of the year learning about that sort of thing,” he tells Salazar, who nods, apparently unsurprised to hear that. “I think Professor Vector’s quite surprised that we all know about algebra already. Apparently it gives our cohort a head-start.”

“But you’re not simply going over knowledge which you already possess?” Salazar checks, Harry shaking his head quickly.

“No, we’re learning a lot more than that – now that she knows we’re ahead, she’s going to assess where we’re all at then start from there, I think. Then there’s also some divination-y stuff that doesn’t use maths in the same way, which we’ll be doing after Yule.”

The reminder of Divination has Harry’s mood dropping instantly, but Salazar seems to sense this, because the man hurries on with a question, apparently intent on distracting Harry.

“What subjects have your friends chosen, then?” he asks gently. “I remember discussing the matter with Neville and Hermione in the spring, but I never heard their final choices.”

Nodding jerkily, Harry coughs to clear his throat and tears his thoughts away from images of large, spectral dogs and birds of prey, turning his focus instead to racking his brains as he attempts to recall the options chosen by his friends. Dudley’s doing Care of Magical Creatures and Study of Ancient Runes, he knows, but that’s pointless to say, because Salazar already knows that one.

“Neville’s doing Care of Magical Creatures and Divination with me,” he starts carefully, frowning. “Draco’s doing Care of Magical Creatures and Study of Ancient Runes – same as Dudley, I guess, and I think they’re in the same classes… And I think Hermione’s doing everything, _including_ Muggle Studies.”

Salazar’s eyebrows lift minutely before settling once more, his lips pursing a second later as a small frown flits over his features, then the reaction is over and he appears calm as ever, offering only a small hum of thought as his head tilts.

“Is she, now…?” he murmurs after another second, then shakes his head. “Very well. Could you let her know that I’d like to speak to her when possible, Harry? If you could lend her your mirror tomorrow evening, for example, then that would be most helpful.”

Not bothering to question Salazar’s plans, Harry merely nods his agreement. If Salazar wants to talk to Hermione about her less-than-sensible choices relating to her health and education, then Harry certainly will not be the one who gets in the way.

The next morning, to Harry’s delight, is a double Potions lesson, which finishes as lunch begins; Harry stays back to talk to Master Snape, having recognised the man’s glance when the rest of the class was dismissed, and wastes no time in pulling the summer’s extra work from his bag, setting several vials carefully down on the desk as well as two rolls of parchment covered in his usual scrawl. Master Snape looks the potions over in silence, Harry waiting nervously with his hands clasped before himself, fingers twisting just a little anxiously as he waits for feedback. He brewed these potions entirely independently, without even Salazar watching him, and they’re potions that he’s brewed to Master Snape’s approval before; he wants – no, _needs_ – them to be good enough now.

“These three are good,” Master Snape tells him finally, setting three of them down, and holds up the fourth for Harry to see: the Wiggenweld Potion. “This one… What do you suppose that you have done wrong?”

Harry hesitates, thinking back over the brewing process two weeks ago as his eyes drift unconsciously away. Something about it nags at his thoughts – a small slip that he thought he’d managed to rectify and consequently forgot about, now that he thinks on it – and with a burst of realisation, he turns his gaze back to the vial.

“I left it on the heat for too long after adding the last of the flobberworm mucus,” he suggests carefully, even as he wonders whether he might indeed have succeeded in making up for that mistake and has in actuality made a _different_ mistake.

“If I were to tell you that it is a little less viscous than it should be, would that agree with your current thoughts?” Master Snape prompts, and Harry doesn’t have to think long on that at all before he nods. “Good. I believe you are correct in your identification of the mistake. This potion will not be as effective as it would otherwise be, meaning that although it will work in combatting Draught of Living Death, the recipient will require a larger dose and as such will feel the side effects more strongly. Nevertheless, it is a good potion. Better than _some_ I have seen on the market.”

Master Snape’s sneer seems a strong indication that, despite the compliment that has Harry beaming involuntarily, it isn’t exactly hard to brew a potion better than the ones he’s referring to, but Harry decides that he doesn’t really want to know and instead makes an internal promise to only ever buy potions from an entirely reputable source or, whenever possible, make them himself.

“I will read through this –” Master Snape gestures to the parchment, the writing of which is mostly comprised of an essay on a potion of Harry’s choice, for which he chose Wolfsbane, “– this afternoon, and you will be outside my office at seven o’clock. I will then talk to you about everything you have written. Following that, we will spend the rest of the evening discussing our expectations and next steps. Is that understood?”

Heart pounding with the intensity of his excitement, Harry manages a shaky nod and tries to pretend that his cheeks are not aching from the strain of his grin. Yes, he has been working with Master Snape for nearly two years now and, yes, he has had a month to get used to the fact that he has now started an apprenticeship in potion-making but, honestly, he’s not sure that he’ll ever leave behind the delight of the matter or the sheer irresistibility of an ecstatic beam whenever Master Snape compliments his work. He has too much of a love for potions and their subtle science to even be bothered by that thought.

“Yes, Sir,” he remembers to reply, wondering for a second if he should now refer to Master Snape as ‘Master’ before recalling that the man explicitly told him not to do so when the apprenticeship was initially formed.

Harry can’t help but suspect that his new master has a bad relationship with his own title, but it’s not Harry’s place to pry into that, nor is he sure that he’d like any answers he found if he were to go looking.

“I heard about the business on the train,” Master Snape announces, changing the subject smoothly as his dark eyes flicker over Harry’s face. “I trust that you are fully recovered.”

“I’m fine,” Harry assures him at once, which earns him a raised eyebrow in response.

“Your uncle didn’t seem impressed when I spoke to him,” Master Snape observes, leaving Harry to wonder exactly when the two men spoke and why.

He dismisses the thought for the time being, deciding to examine it later, and shrugs instead.

“He _did_ tell me fairly explicitly not to get attacked on the train,” he admits, Master Snape’s lips twitching in silent amusement. “Professor Lupin has offered to teach me and my friends the Patronus Charm – and maybe the whole year, if they want to learn.”

Master Snape’s expression pinches a little at the mention of Professor Lupin, but he doesn’t make the surly remark that Harry is sure rests on the tip of his tongue, instead merely nodding in thought.

“The work we will be doing on the Mind Arts should help you somewhat with that.”

 _Well_ , Harry muses as Master Snape dismisses him, _that sounds convenient._

That afternoon, Harry finds himself hurrying along at Hermione’s side with the rest of the class, trying to decipher exactly where Professor Lupin – who has spent the last two days looking strangely exhausted, for a man only two days into a full term of teaching – might be taking them. There’s no denying that having a practical lesson with their new professor for their first lesson is somewhat unusual, but Harry’s certainly excited, and he feels rather too impatient to wait until they reach their destination to find out what they’re doing.

“Well, this is rather novel,” Draco remarks on Hermione’s other side, Harry biting back a grin at the understatement; Hermione only nods distractedly, clearly trying to work out what’s going on.

“Do you suppose it’s some kind of big creature?” she asks. “Maybe we’re going out of the castle altogether?”

“Maybe,” Harry offers, then shrugs, “Or maybe we’re going to look at some sort of plant. I mean, Professor Sprout is taking us into Greenhouse Three this year, isn’t she? So maybe…”

He trails off as Professor Lupin comes to a halt outside a familiar door – a door that, Harry thinks distantly, he snuck through about half a year ago, to send a letter through the Floo network.

“The _staffroom_?” Terry mutters incredulously behind him, Harry biting back a laugh at the sheer level of confusion in his housemate’s voice, even though he has no more idea of why they’re here than Terry himself.

“Maybe we’re going to fight one of the teachers,” Tony offers, though Harry suspects that the suggestion is more for Sue’s benefit – she lets out a small, incredulous squeak – than out of any real belief that they might be about to duel an adult.

“Inside, please, all of you!” Professor Lupin calls softly, holding the door open to usher them all in. “Quickly, now… Ah, good afternoon, Severus.”

Harry perks up at the mention of Master Snape, peering in to see the man with a grin already forming across his face, but is very much unsurprised by the glower that his master shoots Professor Lupin. He is, after all, more than aware that Professor Lupin being friends with his father means that they probably have an antagonistic past at best.

“Lupin,” Master Snape greets, Harry impressed by the level of civility in the Potions Master’s tone; it’s quite a feat, he thinks as he ducks into the room, that Master Snape’s sneer is only partially visible.

“Do you mind if we borrow the staffroom?” Professor Lupin continues calmly, and Master Snape’s gaze flickers over the class, settling for a moment on Harry before moving on.

“Of course not,” he allows stiffly, “Though you’ll have to forgive me that I don’t feel inclined to stay.”

Once Master Snape is gone, Professor Lupin does not delay in explaining the content of their first lesson; they’re to face a boggart that has infested a cabinet, something that Harry already knows the vague principle of but certainly has never attempted himself before. What _is_ his worst fear at the moment? Honestly, it’s not that difficult a question to answer: You-Know-Who, whose return could well be imminent and whose violent campaign in the name of purism will threaten the lives of all Harry holds dear.

At first, he can’t think of anything that might make You-Know-Who even remotely amusing, so he drifts to the back of the group, turning the problem over in his mind as he tries not to think about Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon waking up to a midnight raid on their house simply for the crime of existence – the two of them stumbling down the stairs, only Aunt Petunia’s low-level wand-work serving as any kind of defence for them, sheltered by their dressing gowns alone…

You-Know-Who, Harry reflects vaguely, would probably look quite funny in Aunt Petunia’s fluffy pink dressing gown – with the hood up, its bunny ears flopping all over the place – and the thought alone has him cracking a small grin before he turns his focus to visualising the change properly. It was originally bought for her as a joke by himself and Dudley, actually, though it’s touching that she wears it anyway; he’s certainly glad that she does now, because it makes all the little details so much easier to bring forth.

Finally, he reaches the front of the line with his wand clutched tightly in his hand, feeling more than ready to face the boggart. Drawing in a deep breath, he lifts his chin and watches the boggart whirl around before starting to change shape, only for Professor Lupin to jump in front of him, the boggart taking on the form of a moon before shifting into a small, white balloon which whizzes noisily around the classroom while Harry tries not to glare at his teacher’s back. What was that about? Does Professor Lupin not think him capable?

He’s never going to be prepared for You-Know-Who’s return if Professor Lupin thinks that he needs to coddle Harry for some reason – whether because of some misguided idea about owing it to Harry’s father or trying to wrap the ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ in cotton wool – and, beyond that, it’s rather humiliating for the class to see it. Already, he can feel his cheeks warming, his jaw clenching and his hand tightening around his wand but, luckily, Hermione draws him away with a light touch to his arm before he can make any sharp demands of exactly _what_ Professor Lupin thinks he is doing.

Still, the frustration remains for the rest of the lesson and, when Professor Lupin dismisses the class – with _everyone_ besides Harry having faced the boggart – Harry stays to talk to the man, determined not to leave without at least an explanation, and preferably a chance to face the boggart besides.

“Harry, do you…?” Hermione hedges carefully, and Harry waves them on, understanding the question without needing to hear the rest of it, but she merely bites her lip, staring at him for another second, then twists to nod at Draco.

The blond raises his eyebrows, glancing between them, but slips out of the door after a small hesitation of his own, leaving Hermione to wait for Harry.

“Is something the matter?” Professor Lupin asks, glancing questioningly between them; Harry jerks his head in a stiff nod before he can help it, still more irritated by what has happened than he would have liked.

“I wanted to know if there’s any particular reason why you wouldn’t let me face the boggart – Sir,” Harry tells him, just barely managing to tag the title on the end to keep his tone from seeming impolite rather than just mildly frustrated.

“Ah,” Professor Lupin nods, the acceptance in the gesture pacifying Harry somewhat. “It was nothing to do with you, Mr Potter, I assure you. I just… Well, I rather assumed that the boggart would take the form of Lord Voldemort –” Harry starts at the use of the name, “– and I thought the class might panic, should he suddenly appear in our midst. Was I mistaken?”

Harry can’t decide whether he’s referring to the assumption of Harry’s fear or the thought that the class would panic, but either way, the answer is the same. Sighing, he shakes his head and thinks through his options for a moment before pressing onwards.

“Now that the class isn’t here, can I…?”

Professor Lupin blinks at him, then shrugs and turns to the cabinet which the boggart has fled back to, decidedly quieter than it was at the start of the lesson; Professor Lupin assured them that it would be back to full strength in time for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff class, and that the only reason he hadn’t let them keep going until it was destroyed was that he still needed it for said lesson.

“Well, I suppose so,” the man allows, drawing his wand and aiming it towards the cabinet. “Are you ready?”

Steeling himself, Harry draws up the image of You-Know-Who in Aunt Petunia’s pink, fluffy, rabbit-styled dressing down, then nods – both to answer Professor Lupin’s question and to convince himself.

“Very well,” Professor Lupin announces. “On three – one, two, three!”

The door flies open but, to Harry’s shock and horror, it is not You-Know-Who who emerges from within the darkness. It is not even Sirius Black, or a dementor. No, staggering towards him, thin and pale, shaking all over with a ruby-encrusted sword in one hand and a wand in the other, robes in utter disarray and glazed eyes red-rimmed, is Salazar.

Blank, Harry can only stare at his uncle, unable to comprehend the sight of Salazar exactly as he had appeared in the Chamber of Secrets so many months ago. Why is _this_ his boggart? This was alarming, yes, but it’s over now. This isn’t something that he’s worrying about anymore.

Understanding dawns nauseatingly quickly once boggart-Salazar starts to speak.

“How _dare_ you?” his uncle’s voice rasps, cracked and broken but familiarly cold, his face like stone as he stumbles closer still. “How dare you try to replace them? How dare you think that you could _ever_ be good enough to take their place? You will _never_ be a substitute for my _family_ ; you dishonour them with your pathetic attempts to fill their absence.”

 _The amulet_ , Harry thinks blankly, staring at the uninterrupted column of Salazar’s throat where the chain should lie. _He isn’t wearing the amulet._

_He wasn’t wearing the amulet in March, either._

“I cannot bear this any longer,” Salazar tells him, and his voice is softer but, really, it only hurts all the more for it. “Looking at you, watching your futile attempts to gain my attention – it is _sickening_. I would rather be anywhere else, so I will take my chances and see where I end up. With any luck, it will be with my _true_ family.”

Then comes a familiar flare of golden light, and Harry can only lurch forward, a cry on his lips as his vision blurs with tears both from Salazar’s words and the reality of losing him, only to find himself faced with the shabbily-clothed back of his Defence professor as the boggart – not Salazar, _just_ a boggart – transforms itself back into a moon and then that white balloon. Warm arms wrap themselves around Harry, pulling him into Hermione’s comforting embrace as she rubs his back gently, and he can only cling to her, hands quivering as he tries to wrap his head around what he’s just seen.

“That wasn’t Lord Voldemort,” Professor Lupin remarks after some time – maybe a matter of seconds, or maybe of minutes – and, when Harry pulls away from Hermione to look at him, his eyebrows are raised in sympathetic enquiry.

“No,” Harry allows hoarsely, shaking his head as he blinks back tears.

Why is _that_ a greater fear for him than You-Know-Who? He doesn’t understand.

“I – I wasn’t expecting…” he starts, then trails off, knowing that it must be obvious that Salazar’s appearance took him by surprise.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Professor Lupin presses gently, gaze flickering briefly towards Hermione. “With Miss Granger, or…?”

Quickly, Harry pulls himself together. There’s definitely no way that he can talk to Professor Lupin about any of this, when the man doesn’t even know a thing about Salazar or the situation as it stands.

“No,” he tells his teacher firmly. “Thanks, but… No, it’s fine.”

Professor Lupin eyes him closely for several seconds.

“…Alright,” comes the eventual concession, Professor Lupin managing a tight smile before turning away to collect his belongings. “But my door is always open.”

Harry manages only a blank nod in response, letting Hermione tug him gently towards the door without protest as he turns his attention back to computing everything that he has just seen. He’d forgotten that Salazar wasn’t wearing his amulet on appearing in the Chamber of Secrets, but the observation got lost in everything else that had happened. Now, with the reminder, the implications of the absence are finally hitting home; in theory, the amulet is all that keeps Salazar in this time with Harry – and Dudley – and for Salazar to take it off and, apparently, not notice the lack of weight around his neck, suggests that Harry’s uncle really has been thinking about trying to return to the 10th Century.

“Harry –” Hermione starts as soon as they’re out in the corridor, one arm still around Harry’s shoulders, but stops as soon as Harry shakes his head, biting her lip in silent concern instead.

“I need to, um –” he tries, but his voice fails him halfway through; he has to stop for several seconds to draw in a deep breath and swallow in an attempt to wet his throat, giving up on offering any particular kind of explanation. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

He turns for Ravenclaw Tower, faltering after only a step as he remembers that Salazar wanted to talk to Hermione at some point this evening and turning back to her, fumbling for his mirror with shaking hands as he does so.

“Here,” he tells her, holding it out to her, and realises that it must look bad when she only stares at it, horrified. “Salazar wanted to talk to you this evening.”

Her lips part in wordless understanding, though her frown isn’t much less uncertain when she reaches out to take the mirror and tuck it out of sight.

“You can give it back to me at dinner or tomorrow,” he tells her quietly then, deciding that it’s best to get going before he breaks down in the middle of a corridor, spins on his heel and heads for his dormitory and the safety of his bed, more than glad that their last period is free today; it gives him plenty of time to compose himself before he has to face anyone.

He has a lot to think about before he even stands a chance of pulling himself together, too.

When a knock rings through his office, Severus won’t deny that he’s surprised. He has two hours before he’s due to meet with Harry – a quick glance at the clock ensures that he hasn’t lost track of the time – and there’s no one else whom he expects to see in his office today. Later in the year, students will start to make impromptu appearances to hand in late homework, ask for assistance on essays or work their way carefully through the rather delicate process of seeking either his advice or, more rarely, his support for in-House matters but, two days in, the majority of students are still settling in on their own terms, and he can’t imagine that any of his colleagues will have found themselves in such a terrible situation as to need _his_ assistance. Severus is hardly unaware of the fact that there is no love lost between himself and the majority of the faculty, and he made his peace with that a long time ago. Such is the life of a double agent, and Severus has always been one for solitude regardless.

The knock comes again, startling him with the realisation that he has allowed himself to become lost in thought – he must be getting complacent – and, quickly, he clears his throat, raising his voice to be heard through the door.

“Come in!”

To his surprise and, admittedly, irritation, it’s Remus Lupin who peers around the door before slipping into Severus’s office and shutting the door softly once more, but Severus doesn’t allow his emotions to shine through on his features, merely raising an unimpressed eyebrow at the werewolf.

“Lupin,” he greets coolly. “Did you want something?”

Lupin, to his credit, only shifts in vague discomfort in response to the less than friendly greeting.

“Harry Potter is your apprentice, is he not?”

Interestingly, Lupin’s tone does not seem particularly accusatory and, certainly, Severus is rather sure that this was already known among the staff as a whole, but that does not stop him from wondering if he’s about to find himself accused of corrupting James Potter’s son to dark, Slytherin ways.

“Yes,” he allows, curt as he struggles to think of any other reasons that Lupin might have to ask such a thing. “Why? Are you concerned that I might corrupt him? Are you worried for his safety among us snakes?”

Sighing, Lupin shakes his head.

“No,” his childhood-tormentor-turned-near-murderer-turned-colleague tells him firmly. “Well – That is to say, I _am_ worried about his safety, but it’s nothing to do with his apprenticeship. I thought perhaps you might be the best person to approach with my concerns.”

Well, that _is_ surprising, Severus has to admit, even as he tries to guess ahead at what Lupin might possibly find so worrying as to come to Severus himself about the issue. Harry must have had his first Defence class today, if he remembers correctly, and having seen the boy in the staffroom just a few hours ago, he can only imagine that they were dealing with that boggart in the cabinet.

“Did the form of his boggart surprise you?” he drawls, wondering internally what Harry’s boggart might be; the previous Dark Lord would have been his first thought, but he doubts that Lupin would have been caught off-guard by such a thing.

Still hovering by the door, Lupin hesitates, then nods and approaches to stand before Severus’s desk, jaw tight with clear agitation.

“Yes,” the other man allows, “It did. I rather thought it would be Lord Voldemort, so I ensured that he did not face it in front of the class – didn’t want to cause a mass panic.”

Severus rather thinks that few of them would remember enough of the few pictures they’d have seen to know that it _was_ the previous Dark Lord standing before them, but he doesn’t mention it, instead setting Harry’s essays – which he had been almost finished with before Lupin interrupted – to the side in order to settle his forearms on his desk and listen.

“Well, he came to me after class and was obviously a little upset that I hadn’t allowed him to face the boggart – though he seemed to understand when I explained my reasoning and, certainly, he agreed that my assumption on what form the boggart would take was correct. All the same, he asked to face it.”

“And something else emerged,” Severus fills in, Lupin nodding with a frown.

“A man who looked rather like Harry himself actually – or like James might have been at our age, if he’d had Harry’s eyes.”

Severus feels himself stiffen, already aware of exactly who Lupin must be describing, but before he can head for the fireplace and make it to Harry’s current residence to give Salazar Potter a piece of his mind and a good, potentially deadly throttling for making Harry _scared_ of him, Lupin continues.

“He was rather alarmingly wasted away, I have to say,” the werewolf tells him, oblivious to Severus’s fury just as much as the fact that his next words may well saved the life of his dead friend’s twin, “As if he hadn’t been eating enough. Had a _sword_ in his hands, of all things. Saying all sorts to the boy – something about returning to his ‘real’ family or something along those lines, constant repetitions that Harry wasn’t good enough to replace ‘ _them_ ’, though I have no idea to whom he might have been referring…”

_Merlin, Salazar…_

“Thank you, Lupin,” Severus interrupts, unable to resist the urge to lift his thumb and forefinger to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I believe I know the problem – and I’ll be seeing Harry this evening, regardless.”

Unfortunately, he doubts that he can get away without some form of explanation, not least because Lupin will hear of Salazar’s existence soon enough – really, it’s surprising that he hasn’t already – and likely put two and two together then.

“If you could refrain from mentioning this to anyone else, I can meet you here at some point over the weekend to offer you an explanation of sorts – shall we say Saturday evening? And perhaps then, it might be prudent to discuss your plans to teach several students the Patronus Charm.”

Lupin blinks, apparently taken aback.

“Saturday evening works well enough,” the man agrees. “But if I’ve offended you by offering to teach Harry –”

“Not at all,” Severus tells him, fighting down the urge to sneer at him simply for the sake of it. “I merely wish to coordinate such tutoring with his education in the Mind Arts, which I will be taking up over the coming weeks.”

“Oh,” Lupin manages, and blinks again. “Alright. Thank you, Severus. I’ll, er… I’ll see you at dinner.”

Offering a stiff nod, Severus watches the door swing gently closed and click shut, trying not to dwell for too long on the idea that he has just had a somewhat _civil_ conversation with Remus Lupin – and promised another one at that.

Harry Potter really has made him soft; he’ll have to complain to Salazar about it when he goes to inform the other man of the situation on Saturday morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing in the vein of telling you about my mum's amusing reactions to chapters - she found herself automatically quite horrified when first reading the Divination section of the chapter, because the description of the classroom made it clear that there was no social distancing. On that note, does anyone else ever watch an old film or program and stiffen up whenever someone coughs on it? I can't seem to train myself out of it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madainn mhath, I hope you are all well. A few things to say before we get into the chapter, with very varying degrees of relevance to the fic itself:
> 
> 1\. Would it be so much to ask for to have just one day for which I have full mobility of a body that does not hurt?
> 
> 2\. I downloaded a podcasting app just so I had something to record some audio on for an entirely unrelated reason to podcasting, and now I find myself tempted to start a podcast, with a wide range of half-polished ideas. Any suggestions?
> 
> 3\. I'll be at uni from Monday onwards, so please do bear that in mind; I may take longer to respond to comments (which, as a reminder, I will always respond to, at least when they're first in a comment thread), and there is a small chance that delays in updates may eventually come about, though I will endeavour to keep that from happening.
> 
> As ever, thoughts/ideas/feedback/criticism/openings for random chats are all welcome. Hopefully this chapter will cheer a few people up, in light of the continued disaster that is our world right now.

The moment that Harry enters Master Snape’s office, prompt on the hour, he gets the idea that they’re going to be discussing something rather more serious than the apprenticeship. Unable to fight the urge to tangle his fingers together and fiddle with them nervously, he can only wait for his master to speak and hope that whatever he hears will offer an explanation for the almost concerned frown that creases Master Snape’s brow.

“Professor Lupin came to visit me earlier,” Master Snape begins, the seven simple words seeming to offer so much in a matter of seconds, and Harry can all but feel himself deflating under that piercing stare, as though Master Snape’s gaze has indeed managed to puncture a hole in Harry’s skin to let all the air out – or perhaps not air, but rather his shaky sense of self-composure. “He expressed concern regarding your boggart form. Tell me, Harry, why _is_ your deepest fear your own uncle?”

Perhaps Harry should be thankful that he has had a long time to think on this, and can now answer the question with relative ease.

“It’s not _Salazar_ , Sir,” he corrects quietly. “It’s – It’s him leaving because, uh…”

He honestly doesn’t want to say it. It’s one thing talking to Master Snape about potion-making, or Occlumency, or wandless magic, or even You-Know-Who’s potential return; it’s quite another to tell the man – or anyone at all – that he’s worried about not being good enough for his uncle because, really, who _could_ be good enough when compared to Godric Gryffindor?

“Yes, Harry?” Master Snape prompts, voice softer than Harry has ever heard it before, pitched with a concern that does little besides making him more uncomfortable.

“Because I’m not good enough for him,” he blurts out and, with the admission, his face, throat and eyes all seem to burn at once. “Because I’ll never be good enough compared to – to Godric, or his friends, and I – I know he misses them more than anything, and I don’t – I don’t want him to hate me for not being them, or feel like I’m keeping him here.”

It’s more than he’s ever said to anyone on the subject, but despite that and the fact that it all seems to be coming out jumbled up so that he has no idea what he’s already said, he doesn’t feel like he can stop himself from talking.

“I’ve been trying to – to tell myself that I’d rather see him go back than end up like he was – like he was earlier in the year, but –” Harry’s voice cracks, and he coughs to clear his throat, lifting an arm to drag his sleeve quickly over his eyes, “– but I guess I just don’t want to – to lose him at all, and I want it to be enough for him to stay here, and – and –”

His breath hitches, stuttering for several seconds until he regains control and finds the strength to continue even through the lightheaded dizziness that has taken over behind his eyes.

“I just want to be _enough_ ,” he confesses. “It’s not – It’s not like he’s ever said I’m _not_ , but he – he wasn’t wearing his amulet when he came to fight the – the basilisk, and I just –”

“Why does the amulet in particular concern you?” Master Snape asks gently, though Harry suspects that the question is more for his benefit, to help him get his thoughts in order, than for any lack of understanding on Master Snape’s part.

“Because – Because he must have taken it off in the first place,” he croaks out, “And not just to shower or sleep. And he – he must have been used to doing that enough that he – that he didn’t even notice he didn’t have it on.”

“And that’s concerning because…?” Master Snape prompts, as though they’re just going through improvements for a recipe and he’s guiding Harry towards the right answers; the familiarity of the routine is undeniably comforting.

“Because it means he wasn’t doing everything he could to stay here,” he manages to offer without stumbling over any of the words or choking on the air sitting in solid lumps in his chest, “Or he was actively _trying_ to let something happen.”

Slowly, Master Snape nods and settles back against the edge of his desk, conjuring a chair for Harry to sit in.

“To clarify,” his master begins carefully, as Harry lowers himself into the newly-existent seat and takes several deep breaths, “You’re concerned that Salazar would rather be in the 10th Century with his fellow Founders than with you, and that he may either deteriorate to the condition that he was in earlier this year, or attempt to create an opportunity for another time-travel incident to take him back.”

Shakily, Harry jerks his head in a nod.

“And – And that maybe he’ll resent me,” he adds in hoarse whisper, Master Snape’s frown prompting him to explain, “Because if he can’t go back, maybe he’ll look for someone to blame, and he’s spending pretty much all of his time here helping me, so what if –”

“Have you considered that perhaps the reason that he’s spending the majority of his time helping you is that he cares about you more than anyone else?” Master Snape cuts in calmly, raising one dark eyebrow in a surprisingly gentle manner. “Harry, consider this: your uncle is an exceptionally clever and powerful man, with a number of extraordinary feats to his name, accidental time-travel among them. He was the main driving force behind creating the amulet that, theoretically, will keep him here. Do you not think that, if he really wished it, he could likely make an impressive attempt at the opposite?”

Harry blinks, utterly astounded by the idea. It has never so much as crossed his mind that Salazar might try to directly _cause_ a time-travel incident, because not once has it occurred to him that such a thing might be possible. He has been so stuck on the idea that Salazar cannot _stop_ such a thing without the amulet that he simply equated the situation to Salazar being entirely unable to control such things. Surely, though, if he could, he’d have done it by now?

“I won’t deny that I imagine the idea has been rather tempting to him at times,” Master Snape continues, eyeing Harry carefully as he does so, “But having visited him last year, when you first mentioned your concerns, I am firmly of the belief that the depth of his love for you is the reason he has not done so. I believe that the time he came closest to such an idea was when he managed to convince himself that _you_ did not need _him_.”

Speechless, Harry can do nothing but stare at his master in silence. Salazar might only be staying _because_ of Harry? Salazar thought that _Harry_ didn’t need _him_?

“However, I have the impression that I did succeed in talking him out of that. The point, Harry, is that Salazar undoubtedly cares for you and loves you. He is hardly about to leave you – but I do insist that you talk to him about this in person, perhaps on Sunday.”

For several seconds, Harry can only nod frantically, already resolving that he will indeed bring this up on Sunday evening, when Salazar comes to take him to the week’s Wizengamot session.

“Thank you, Sir,” he manages to choke out finally, his eyes stinging inexplicably once more, and takes the conjured handkerchief that Master Snape offers gratefully.

“I will warn you that I will be discussing this with him tomorrow morning,” the Potions Master tells him, which is somewhat more alarming; Harry opens his mouth to protest, but Master Snape merely fixes him with a look and continues, “Not least because I will need to find out what he wishes for me to tell Professor Lupin. I will endeavour to make it clear to him that you plan to talk with him about it on Sunday.”

Professor Lupin – of course. Harry hadn’t even thought about what Professor Lupin might think of his boggart, but now it occurs to him that he can only be grateful that the man went to Master Snape rather than investigating it himself, spreading it around the staff or, worst of all, going straight to Dumbledore.

“If there is nothing else you wish to say on the matter for now…?” Master Snape waits expectantly for a beat, but carries on when Harry shakes his head. “Then we will turn to our original purpose. Although this is primarily an apprenticeship in potion-making, I will be teaching and supporting you in a variety of fields, as you know. I would like to start by reiterating that if you have any problems, I would prefer for you to tell me. Tell your uncle as well, by all means, and if you or he has it under control, then so be it. However, I would like to remain aware of the situation that my apprentice is in.”

Master Snape made this very clear to him when the apprenticeship was first formed, and Harry has no problems now with reaffirming his agreement.

“Yes, Sir,” he offers promptly, earning a nod before Master Snape continues.

“To ensure that this does not fall by the wayside, we will be setting aside an hour a week for the sole purpose of such discussions – we will arrange the exact timings in a little while – though that is not a reason to keep quiet should you feel the need to raise a problem sooner.”

Flushing a little under Master Snape’s pointed stare, Harry suppresses the urge to fidget and supplies the man with a sheepish smile instead. Master Snape’s lips twitch a little, but he moves swiftly onwards without further comment.

“During those particular sessions, we will also have an opportunity to discuss wider situations and for me to tell you things which you might find useful to know.”

“About the last war?” Harry fills in cautiously, even as his small flash of embarrassed amusement fades to serious determination once more.

“Mostly, yes,” Master Snape confirms, but doesn’t elaborate on the ‘mostly’ element of his reply. “There is one thing that I would like to discuss with your uncle first, as I suspect that he has more knowledge on the subject and the potential impacts of telling you than myself, but as I told you before the summer, I will not be making a habit out of going through him now that you are my apprentice.”

Slowly, Harry nods to show his understanding, itching with the temptation to ask exactly what that referenced ‘thing’ is, though from Master Snape’s words, he rather suspects that to enquire further would be utterly futile, so he tamps down on the urge and seals his mouth firmly.

“Now, the majority of the time that we spend outside of lessons will, for the next few months at least, be on the Mind Arts. I will be teaching you first the theory of Occlumency and then in practice how to organise your mind, which can then be built on to allow you to shield your mind from others. It will require patience and an understanding that you will _not_ grasp it instantly.”

Again, Harry finds himself the subject of a pointed stare, but can’t bring himself to care, more preoccupied with stifling an eager bounce at the prospect of learning yet another branch of magic.

“However, by Yule,” Master Snape recommences, “I expect you to have made sufficient progress for us to return our main focus to potion-making, though you will continue to build on your Occlumency skills both in my company and by yourself, with guidance. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry pronounces, trying to keep the eager grin threatening to split his face from making itself known.

“Good,” Master Snape declares, nodding his approval. “Then we shall move on to setting out a schedule for the first few weeks, though this is flexible with sufficient warning, should things change. Sunday afternoons and evenings are taken for you, are they not?”

Nodding, Harry bites his lip as he tries to think through what little he knows of his weekly timetable, only two days into the term.

“I’m pretty sure I’ll still have Quidditch on Saturday – late morning and early afternoon, and I normally run early on Saturday mornings,” he offers, pausing while Master Snape reaches for parchment and a quill to jot the information down. “I can build anything else around this.”

Master Snape nods in silent consideration, seeming to take a moment to recall the constraints of his own schedule.

“Perhaps the best place to start would be with the same Monday, Wednesday and Friday sessions as were in place last year,” he suggests, “But I would like to add in an hour or so on Sunday morning to have breakfast in my office while we discuss any problems you might have, the situation as whole, or whatever else might arise. That will be at seven o’clock – and normally, I will spend Sundays brewing for Madam Pomfrey, so if you wish to observe, it may sometimes be safe for you to stay afterwards to do so.”

Perking up, Harry can find no response for several seconds besides an eager nod, taking the phrasing to mean that the potions he’d be watching Master Snape make would be rather more complex than the ones that he has practical experience with.

“I’d like that, Sir,” he manages after another few seconds, earning himself a flicker of a smile.

“Very well,” Master Snape agrees, making another note on his parchment before setting it to the side and reaching for what Harry recognises to be his writing on the Wolfsbane potion. “In that case, let us discuss this…”

It is with a far lighter heart that Harry finally starts the trek back to Ravenclaw Tower, worries over Salazar at least somewhat assuaged and with overall glowing feedback on his research and write-up – for a first attempt, at any rate. Master Snape left him with no illusion that the current quality will not be good enough in a few months, but for where he’s at, it’s more than acceptable, and the prospect of progress is hardly something that Harry finds displeasing.

Still, there are questions whirring in his mind once more, his curiosity creeping higher every time he recalls the mention of something that Master Snape wishes to discuss with Salazar first. What could there possibly be which Master Snape would feel the need to talk to Salazar before even _telling_ Harry about it? The idea of simply _knowing_ something being dangerous seems utterly bizarre, and no small amount of Harry rebels against the idea of knowledge posing a potential risk, but he trusts Master Snape and, certainly, the man isn’t one for overreacting.

“Harry?”

Jumping, Harry spins on his heel and almost falls _up_ the remainder of the stairs leading from the Dungeons to the Entrance Hall, then catches himself as he teeters just in time to save himself from tumbling all the way back down.

“Sorry,” Draco offers, though he looks for a moment, before his face falls back into utter seriousness, as though he’s trying not to laugh at Harry’s temporary predicament. “Can we talk for a bit?”

“Er…” Harry flounders as he finally steadies himself enough to check the time; they have half an hour before curfew. “Sure.”

“Great,” Draco exhales, relaxing briefly before glancing nervously around and beckoning Harry into an abandoned classroom some way back down the corridor.

Harry waits patiently, doing his best to temper his curiosity, while Draco checks to ensure that no one has followed them before shutting the door carefully and locking it. Clearly, Draco’s feeling very tense about whatever he wants to discuss with Harry, so it’s up to Harry to remain calm and collected for the both of them, rather than letting Draco’s behaviour get to his head.

“Your first Wizengamot meeting,” Draco announces abruptly once the room is secure, though the words are hushed as he crosses the paved floor to Harry. “Your uncle said some things – about Slytherin House, and about his views, and I just – The whole house is in _uproar_ , Harry. I need to know the truth.”

_Ah._

Taking in a deep breath, Harry nods slowly before letting the air out once more.

“D’you want to talk to Salazar yourself?” he suggests quietly, then wishes he hadn’t as he realises that he doesn’t quite feel ready to look at his uncle right now, as much as his discussion with Master Snape has helped.

To his relief – and bemusement – Draco shakes his head quite hurriedly.

“No!” the blond refuses emphatically, then seems to make an effort to calm himself. “No, that… won’t be necessary.”

For several seconds, Harry can do little more than squint at his friend, confused by the reaction, until he takes another look at Draco’s anxious demeanour and realisation sinks in. Salazar is no longer just _Harry’s Uncle Salazar_ , in Draco’s books, or even Lord Potter; he’s the Founder of Draco’s Hogwarts House, the supposed root of a large portion of Draco’s beliefs and biases. His very presence carries weight, never mind his word.

“He’s still my uncle, you know,” Harry points out. “Just because he’s –”

“You don’t understand!” Draco hisses, then grimaces, apparently regretting his word choice as Harry frowns in slight offense. “Alright, you probably do… But Salazar Slytherin is – He’s – He’s –”

“Slytherin House is more than just a school house, I know,” Harry soothes. “It follows you through life – more than the others do, because of the isolation.”

Anxiously, Draco nods, but doesn’t seem able to find more words yet, so Harry continues.

“I know he’s a bit of a legend –”

“A _bit_?” Draco scoffs, voice strained. “Forget _Merlin_ – Salazar Slytherin is the _ultimate_ legend! He – Harry, for my family – for many Dark families – he is the most important historical figure _ever_. He helped to build Hogwarts, he founded Slytherin House, which is like – it’s our sanctuary, our extended family, I…”

“And he’s supposed to be a highly powerful man who believed in the purism ideology,” Harry finishes, a little sadly, and after a small hesitation, Draco nods in confirmation. “It gave your arguments a foundation _rooted_ in tradition, and now… he’s digging up the ground to show that there were never any roots in the first place, and the whole tree is on the verge of toppling.”

Draco blinks at him, and Harry flushes, knowing what his friend is going to say before Draco even opens his mouth.

“What _was_ that metaphor?”

“It just came to me,” Harry mumbles, embarrassed. “But it’s accurate, isn’t it?”

Drawing in a breath to speak, Draco hesitates for a beat before letting the air back out in a defeated exhale.

“Probably,” he allows quietly. “But I – It’s just… I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Do you want me to tell you?” Harry asks, keeping his words gentle and cautious to lower the risk of overstepping. “Or do you want to figure it out for yourself?”

“I…” Draco trails off, biting his lip, and glances away in obvious discomfort. “I’d like to know what you think.”

_So he wants another perspective_ , Harry fills in, and can’t deny that he feels a little proud that Draco trusts him to provide that.

“Honestly?” he checks all the same, steeling himself when Draco nods. “Well… I think purism is a load of bullshit.”

Perhaps that was blunter – and certainly more crass – than it had to be, but it has Draco too surprised to bristle instinctively while Harry continues, which is probably for the best.

“Why should it make a difference whether or not your parents are magical?” he presses. “We all connect to the land magic; we all feel its buzz the same when we take part in the quarter and cross-quarter rituals. Our parents don’t define our magic – or how do you explain it when someone with an initially light-leaning core is born to dark-leaning parents or the other way around, or – to get to the crux of the issue – when a squib is born to magical parents, or a muggleborn to non-magical parents?”

“They steal –”

“ _How_?” Harry demands. “They’re clueless of our traditions, of our world, and _supposedly_ , they’re not as good with magic as we are, according to purism itself – so how do they steal magic? Especially if they don’t already have magic to do it with. Don’t you think You-Know-Who would have stolen people’s magic if there was a way to do it?”

Draco’s stare is blank, uncomprehending, but Harry isn’t finished – not in the slightest.

“So they don’t know our traditions – that’s not _their_ fault. That’s on us. We’re failing in _our_ duty to educate them and make it clear that we _won’t_ accept their traditions in place of our own! Yes, a lot of that is down to the Light encouraging it – that’s probably how it started – but we’re not making it much better now! Just think, if you hadn’t listened to me and taken Hermione under your wing on the train – if we hadn’t all made an effort to reach out to the _entirety_ of the year, regardless of blood or parentage – where would we be now?”

Draco’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound emerges.

“There’d be a _small_ group of us,” Harry emphasises ruthlessly, “Sneaking out to perform our rituals, wondering when the next is going to be banned, well aware of our classmates glaring at the back of our heads for daring to follow our traditions. But _we_ reached out to _them_ , and now the entire year is doing it – with the exception of Ron, but he’s a Weasley, and I think even _he_ ’s coming around! That’s all down to _our_ behaviour, not anyone’s parentage.”

Finally, Draco seems to find his voice.

“So, you think it’s all just… _nurture_ over nature?” he asks weakly, struggling onwards when Harry nods. “Then why is the Wizengamot all old families? Why do we have the power if we’re not…?”

“Special?” Harry fills in, then admits with a shrug, “I asked Salazar that when he first explained the Wizengamot to me. He said it’s just easy to keep the power if you’re the ones who start with it. There _are_ ways for new families to join if they build up enough prestige over enough generations, but no new families are going to know that, because no one’s telling them.”

It’s clear that Draco is struggling to wrap his head around that idea, so Harry decides that it’s probably best to wrap the conversation up – not to mention that it’s getting close to curfew now.

“Look, think it over tonight, and if you want to talk about it more tomorrow, we can do that,” he offers. “I’ve got to get to Ravenclaw Tower, but as I said – think about it, yeah?”

When he finally makes it back to the common room – on just the right side of curfew – Harry is surprised to find Terry waiting up for him.

“Oh!” his housemate exclaims as he steps through the door, and Harry can do little but watch in bemusement as Terry slumps in relief. “Thank _Merlin_ … If you weren’t back in another five minutes, I was going to go to Professor Flitwick to tell him you were missing.”

“I had a meeting with Master Snape,” Harry points out, not missing the way Terry wrinkles his nose at the title, clearly unused to hearing it.

“Yeah, but you’re normally back before now,” the other boy reasons, glancing up at the clock on the wall. “Talking about meetings, though… You have to leave school every Sunday evening, right? So do we need to change the study group time a bit?”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry admits slowly, a little surprised that Terry knows this, then hurries to clarify, “But I don’t want to mess with anyone else’s schedules – I can always just miss the end –”

“And skip tutoring those of us without your strange affinity for Potions?” Terry laughs. “Not a _chance_ , Potter – and you’re not getting out of Astronomy time with me, either.”

Offering a mock-groan, Harry pulls a face at his friend, who grins back with obvious satisfaction.

“We can start it sooner after lunch – at two, maybe?” Terry suggests. “We can probably get the message out tomorrow morning.”

Mulling it over, Harry finds that he has nothing to offer besides a shrug.

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees, even as he remembers what _else_ he has to do tomorrow morning.

Quidditch practice hasn’t started up yet, as Roger has try-outs to hold – partly as a formality, partly to keep them on their toes over the summer, and partly to see if there really is any extra talent or potential to either bring onto the team or start developing for a few years’ time. In its place, however, Harry and his friends have a meeting with a particular pair of twins, thanks to Draco’s quick thinking last year, and that should definitely bring its own brand of excitement.

The first run of a new term always brings with it a reformed unfamiliarity with the route around the lake and, given that, combined with the early September weather making the ground beneath their feet liable to give in an instant, it’s really no surprise that, by the time Harry, Dudley, Hermione and Neville stumble their way to a stop, they’re all covered in mud and flushed from laughing at one another. From his broom, Draco grins down at them all with sparkling eyes, apparently pleased to have missed out on the mess but far from above enjoying the sight of them slipping and sliding all over the place.

It’s good, Harry reflects internally, that the blond doesn’t seem anywhere near as tense as he was last night – though such thoughts vanish when Draco whips out his wand to splash them all with a veritable tidal wave of lake water. Hermione cries out in shock and outrage, already grinning as she fumbles for her own wand to return fire, but Dudley gets there first, catching Draco in the face with a wave of water that nearly knocks him from his broom, and the scandalised stare that their airborne friend turns on Harry’s cousin is enough to have Neville laughing aloud and turning to Harry for balance – undoubtedly a bad decision, because Harry is in no shape to keep himself steady, never mind Neville as well; down they go together, all flailing limbs as the slippery mud slides out from beneath them, and if Harry had managed to avoid the worst of the tripping and falling on the run itself, then no one would be able to tell now.

“S – Sorry,” Neville stutters through sheepish snorts, laughter flushing his cheeks alongside the faintest of blushes, and Harry can only wave away the apology, glancing up at their cackling friends through narrowed eyes as Dudley wipes away tears at the sight of them.

“You can make it up by helping me get this lot – we go for the broom first,” he murmurs, Neville’s eyes widening before he nods frantically.

“What are you two whispering about?” Draco asks suspiciously, drifting lower on his broom to hear them, and Neville must share Harry’s opinion that this is the best opportunity they’ll have, because together, they dive for the broom.

“ _Merlin_ –!” Draco yelps, but it’s too late; the broom’s down to half a metre above the ground, and a little tip has him sliding from its soaked handle, catching Dudley with a desperately grasping hand on the way down. “You _bastards_!”

“The four of you…” Hermione giggles, a hand to her mouth in a desperate attempt to stifle laughter before she seems to realise that all four of them – Draco included, apparently now resigned to getting as wet and dirty as the rest of them – are looking up at her from the ground. “Oh, _no_ … I fell more than the rest of you combined on that run – you’re not –”

Harry lunges for her as she starts to back away, and she falls with a shriek that twists into laughter as she accepts her fate.

“Oh, you – _you_ …”

She punches his arm lightly, still grinning, and Harry can only beam back, more than a little pleased with himself.

“You know,” he tells her quietly, glancing around at the other three, “We’re all rather muddy, and there’s a bath sitting right next to us…”

“A bath…?” she trails off, eyes widening, and bites her lip. “ _You_ , Harry Potter, are a _monster_.”

Shameless, Harry only lifts a shoulder. His cheeks are aching, and he’s a little breathless from all the laughter, but he’s not about to stop now.

“Dudley first?” she offers, rather too quickly for someone who was supposedly disapproving a moment ago, but Harry doesn’t call her out on it.

“Of course!”

By the time they’ve all been dragged into the shallow waters just off the lakeshore – still warm from the fading summer, and more than comfortable to splash around in – Harry’s cheeks are hot with the hilarity of the situation, and when he catches Hermione’s eyes again, Dudley spitting out water in the background, she looks about as flushed as he is.

“Is it me,” Neville ventures, panting a little as he seems to struggle to reign in his grin, “Or are those kids over there staring at us?”

Harry peers in the direction that he’s pointing and bursts into laughter as he catches sight of the startled expressions of the poor children sitting perhaps twenty metres away.

“Second-Years, I think,” he supplies, scrambling for his wand to dry his glasses, and nods in confirmation when he gets a better look at them. “Yeah – that’s Ron’s sister. Jenny? Ginny. He introduced her last year, right?”

Draco nods, surprisingly unconcerned given his family’s ancient blood feud with the Weasleys, but in all honesty, Harry suspects that the situation might have changed since they rescued Ron from the Chamber of Secrets. Perhaps he should ask Draco about it at some point.

“The blonde doesn’t look too bothered, does she?” Dudley snorts, shaking his head, and Hermione smiles softly, slowly settling in the water to fan out on her back like a starfish, t-shirt billowing around her and hair drifting in a blissful halo.

“Can we stay here all day?” she sighs, the question clearly rhetorical; already, the chill is starting to set in, and Harry knows that they’ll have to get out and clean themselves up soon, or risk coming down with something. “Next summer, we should spend a day in here. Just a whole day of this.”

She turns her head, glancing over the rest of them and meeting Harry’s eyes as she does so, and Harry finds that there’s little to do but return her small smile and nod.

“I’d like that,” he offers quietly, because no one else really seems to have anything to say. “I’d like that a lot.”

It all hinges, of course, on You-Know-Who and Sirius Black not crashing the party before they get such an opportunity, but there’s not much he can do about that besides hope that they’ll get their chance. This year, holding out for a full day of drifting in the Black Lake in the summer seems like the best goal going.

“ _Cannonball_!”

Harry jumps, biting down on a vicious curse as a dark shape launches over their heads to land in deeper water with a large splash – followed, seconds later, by another. _Not great cold-water safety_ , he observes vaguely, turning to see exactly who has decided to join them, and has to concede that he isn’t at all surprised to see identical heads of sopping crimson poking out of the glassy blackness, bright grins stretching twin faces.

“We couldn’t see you in the Great Hall –” one of the Weasley twins starts, apparently by way of explanation.

“– and that surprised us, because you’re normally all quite punctual –” continues the other, Harry deciding not to ask why the two older boys seem to have knowledge of his and his friends’ shared schedule.

“– so we thought we’d have a look for you –”

“– and when we saw you here, we really couldn’t resist joining in, could we, George?”

“Not at all, Fred,” Supposedly-George – Harry will admit to not trusting them to be truthful when it comes to which is which – agrees. “Now, would the ickle Third-Years like to stay _in_ the lake for our chat, or d’you want to get warm and dry and meet us somewhere in half an hour?”

Harry considers them closely. He’s still feeling just about warm enough, although he doubts that it will stay that way for _too_ much longer, but both of them have already started to shiver.

“We’ll stay here,” Dudley tells them cheerfully, clearly on exactly the same page as Harry. “Unless _you_ ’d like to get out?”

Supposedly-Fred turns to Supposedly-George and sighs.

“They’ve got us, Fred,” Supposedly-Fred announces, and Harry gives up trying to work out which of them is which.

“We’ll just have to make it quick,” his twin declares, nodding vigorously. “D’you still remember the password to the Prefects’ bathroom?”

“Of course!” the original Supposedly-Fred returns, mock-offended. “As if I’d _ever_ forget!”

“Good enough,” the previous Supposedly-George shrugs. “Alright, ickle Third-Years, here’s the deal: we mentor you as up-and-coming pranksters, and teach you our tricks of the trade. When we get a bit busier with schoolwork, you’ll be there to act as assistants. When we _leave_ , you take over, and build your own legacy – and maybe help promote some of our products.”

_Ah, yes – the joke-shop venture._

“But while we _are_ here, we get to play with our combined resources, including –”

“– but not limited to –”

“– Harry’s Parseltongue –”

“– the Slytherin cunning –”

“– the general innocence of Dudley and Neville –”

“– and our secrets of how not to get caught.”

“And we’ll pool ideas?” Draco adds on, frowning at them a little. “It won’t be a case of only doing what you say – or _always_ having to go along with any ideas you have?”

“Of course!”

“Democratic process.”

“Though we’ll have greater weight, as the mentors, of course.”

“Just not _too_ much. We’ll be kind masters –”

“And you our obedient slaves. Sound good?”

Biting back a grin, Harry wipes away a stray water droplet from his forehead and tries to pretend that the chill of the water isn’t _just_ starting to seep into his bones.

“Excellent, apart from the last bit,” he tells them, and when one of them pulls a face, adds, “I already _have_ a master. He wouldn’t approve of sharing me with Gryffindors.”

“You do make a terribly solid point, Harry, old chap,” the one who had pulled a face agrees cheerfully. “So aside from the slave-master part, we have a deal?”

“We do,” Draco confirms, Harry nodding alongside the rest of his friends.

It comes as no surprise that the twins settle on inducting the five of them in a few days’ time, when their state cannot be described as ‘somewhat past the point of chilly and firmly into ‘ _fuck_ , that’s cold’,’ or similar. In the meantime, however, Harry will simply have to keep a mental note that he wants to ask further questions regarding this joke-shop idea, to then discuss with Salazar at a later date. After all, Salazar _did_ ask to be informed of any potential financial ventures.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madainn mhath, ciamar a tha sibh?
> 
> Apologies to everyone who I left without a reply for nearly a week; I'm glad I put a warning in the last chapter that this might happen. The week has been busy and no small degree of overwhelming, but I'm almost settled in. Unfortunately, I come to you from self-isolation, because two of my new household members have tested positive. On that note, please stay safe, follow guidelines, and don't endanger others. Beyond that, I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> (I've done my first problem sheet, and I'm so excited that I told my parents somewhere in the region of three or four times, so you can all know as well.)

Potter Manor, hidden deep within the ancient woodlands of the Norfolk countryside, its lands sprawling through the greenwood and along the coastline without ever brushing the surrounding farmland, is not the most extravagant of family bases within the Isles. Yet, despite the state of disrepair from which it is only now starting to emerge, there remains a simple elegance to the design of both the building itself and its gardens, with walls of pale brick and paths of white marble, intricate patterns of radiant plant-life – of both magical and non-magical varieties – perhaps the most decadent part of the site as a whole.

Further from the ordered gardens, however, the gently-sloped lawns are overtaken by somewhat more tumultuous flora, first bushes and then trees sprouting up from the tangle of wildflowers and tall grasses that eventually gives way to woodland. These freely-growing forests flow over the border, spilling into plottable land and amplifying the soft discouragement provided by the manor’s wards to keep nearby muggle communities from creeping too close. Within the trees themselves, however, there exist several groves, cultivated for centuries until they could be trusted to grow independently, runes carved into ancient bark of some of the most powerful species of trees native to the Isles.

Such groves provide a powerbase for the wards, connecting them to the pools of land magic that form within, and as such it is here that, lips twisting in a silent frown, Salazar examines his work almost absent-mindedly for errors, his mind elsewhere as he picks his way through the various other problems he has yet to combat. In all truthfulness, the majority of them are easily enough put to bed, a simple matter of untangling the threads of his plans and letting the optimal route unwind before him, but there is _one_ issue that he cannot seem to find an answer to, though he has known of it for months, now.

Sighing gently, he pushes up from his knees into a standing position and turns from the engraved stone that he has been checking over, more than satisfied with his work, then fixes his attention on the other stone as a scarred hand lifts to run through his hair. This one, too, he will need to examine, though there is little he can do besides that until he has someone else to erect the wards with. He _refuses_ to set up further wards for Potter Manor without at least two anchors, but that requires a second warder of suitable skill and discretion who will either not notice or not question the similarities to Hogwarts’ own wards, never mind the fact that Salazar is laying battle-worthy wards over the otherwise suitable defences that still stand despite Potter Manor’s state of physical disrepair.

Severus would be his first choice, but the man’s skills lie in Potions, Duelling and the Mind Arts. He is a good friend and ally, and Salazar would trust him with Harry’s life – valued at an admittedly higher rate than his own – but, when it comes to building wards to defend Harry, Salazar is rather sure that Severus would be the first to concede his lack of suitability.

His next choice would be Quirinus, but therein lie similar problems, and the fact remains that Quirinus is simply not powerful enough for this kind of work.

In actuality, what Salazar needs is for Rowena to appear from around a corner, having scented out the prospect of an exciting piece of runic work like she is – was – wont to do, but that will not be happening, and he is finally somewhere close to making his peace with that. Unfortunately, besides Rowena, the only person Salazar knows of who would be capable of erecting these wards is himself and, with that, he finds himself back to the problem of needing a partner. A skilled magic-user Salazar might be, but he has not yet mastered the ability to be in two places at once.

Though, he registers, such a concept is not _entirely_ out of the question…

“Salazar?”

Startling, Salazar shakes himself from his thoughts and turns expectantly to Quirinus, lips twitching as he takes in the other man’s dressing gown. Though he refrains from commenting, Quirinus seems to catch his momentary distraction anyway, offering an exasperated eye-roll, which throws Salazar with its similarities to Harry’s own favourite response.

“Yes, it’s early in the morning,” Quirinus tells him pointedly, far more bark to his tone than had been a year ago – much better progress than Salazar had honestly hoped for at the time. “At least my clothing’s _clean_. Severus wishes to speak with you. He’s in the drawing room.”

Raising an eyebrow, Salazar allows himself to be led back towards the Manor itself, dusting specks of mud and the occasional piece of fern from his robes as he goes before flicking his fingers to dry the dew-soaked patches of cloth over his knees. Quirinus can make as many remarks on the state of Salazar’s outfit as he likes, but the fact remains that there is nothing remotely wrong with getting oneself dirty in the course of necessary work, so long as there is no formal company to present an immaculate image for. Regardless, a more pressing concern than the dirt on his robes is certainly what Severus could possibly wish to discuss so early into the new academic year. Salazar will not deny the small trickle of trepidation that worms its way down his spine, a small hint of concern that Harry – or possibly, though less likely, Dudley – has fallen into trouble already fizzing in the back of his mind.

The serious frown creasing Severus’s countenance does little to help matters, Salazar finds on entering the drawing room, though it is perhaps a good sign that the other man takes a few moments for small talk before venturing into the matter at hand and certainly does not seem in much hurry to be elsewhere.

“You’re looking somewhat healthy again,” is the dry observation Salazar receives once Quirinus has excused himself to take his muggle fiction book somewhere undisturbed, the words accompanied by a lifted eyebrow and a piercing stare. “I’d almost believe that a gust of wind couldn’t knock you over.”

Grimacing faintly, Salazar decides against arguing too severely against such an assessment; he knows full well that he was not taking care of himself in the slightest earlier this year, and now, he finds himself paying the price for it. Perhaps the issue could be fixed rather more quickly with the use of potions but, this way, he will hopefully be discouraged from doing the same thing again in future.

“Would you like a drink, Severus?” he offers instead, fixing a polite smile in place. “You seem rather… dry.”

Severus’s lips twitch.

“Very witty, Slytherin,” he drawls, though his posture tells a different story to his distant words as he settles back into his chair and gestures languidly to another. “Do I need to invite you to sit in your own home?”

“No worries, Severus,” Salazar dismisses, waving a lax hand. “I am simply taking a moment to enjoy the experience of being the tallest in the room for once in my life.”

“Harry is still shorter,” Severus reasons, Salazar twisting his lips in disgruntlement as he finally sits.

“Not for long, I fear,” he sighs. “That boy has no business growing at the rate he has been this summer – and Dudley, too.”

“Woe is you,” Severus returns, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I’m sure such an upfront man as yourself finds _no_ use in a seemingly non-threatening stature…”

“I hardly claim that it has no uses,” Salazar counters, lifting his hands to show his palms as a small smile grows to mirror the one fighting to make itself known amidst Severus’s usually dour features. “Merely that variation is a gift in itself.”

“Of course,” Severus allows, bowing his head. “Shall we move to the matter at hand?”

Settling one leg over the other, Salazar tilts his head in quiet expectation.

“That seems a suitable course of action.”

Drawing in a breath, Severus purses his lips and, contrary to his words, seems to take a moment to examine Salazar before offering an explanation for his visit. Salazar forces himself to sit still and unbothered by the gaze, even though, after nearly two decades with no more visits to well-meaning doctors, such blatant staring still brings with it the uncomfortable impression of being little more than an inhuman object of interest to be poked and prodded without regard for his own feelings.

“Putting aside, for the time being, the ethics of the event itself,” Severus begins finally, which does not seem the most promising introduction, “The Third-Year students have been facing a boggart in their first Defence lesson of the term.”

“In view of their peers?” Salazar cannot help but demand, despite Severus’s initial warning; he cannot help the anger that grows at the thought of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds forced to face their worst fears in front of their classmates.

The idea is simply _horrific_.

“Yes,” Severus confirms simply, though his pointed stare keeps Salazar from expressing his ire further. “On Friday afternoon, Harry’s class had his first Defence lesson. His boggart was not, as I would have assumed, the Dark Lord.”

“Ex-Dark Lord,” Salazar finds himself correcting absently, though he knows that the title comes as a force of habit for Severus, as with Lucius. “Mr Riddle, if you’d like a more specific alternative. I take it that Harry’s boggart is the concern here?”

Severus frowns lightly but nods all the same, seeming to brace himself before continuing – a concerning sign if ever Salazar saw one.

“Harry’s greatest fear, current as of Friday afternoon, was that you would abandon him.”

Generally, Salazar likes to consider himself a reasonably unshakeable man. Yes, he has been notably emotional at times over the last few years, but the situation was rather unusual then, and these days he operates under the impression that such periods of desperate grief, worry or anger are behind him. Hearing those words from Severus’s mouth, however – that _he_ is the base of Harry’s greatest fear – leaves him stunned beyond words, nausea rising even before the rest of the information sinks in.

Harry’s greatest fear is that Salazar will leave him – and Salazar has hardly been doing much to discourage that over the last year.

“Oh,” he manages faintly and, for the first time in a very long while, finds himself speechless.

This is not to say that Salazar has never considered the possibility of leaving Harry, or that he does not still feel the weight of such thoughts alongside the consequential guilt. However, he rather hoped that Harry had never noticed Salazar’s tendency to long for things which, in reality, will never come to pass and, struck with the truth, he cannot summon any form of eloquent response for Severus.

“Harry wants to discuss this with you himself, face-to-face on Sunday, so I won’t tell you too much about it,” Severus announces firmly, “Nor do I know the fine details myself, for that matter – and we will have to discuss _how_ I came by this knowledge.”

Slowly, almost warily, Salazar recovers his voice and sets aside his thoughts to consider once he has the solitude required to fall into uninterrupted introspection.

“Harry did not tell you?” he asks, weaker than he intended.

“No,” Severus confirms, one sallow finger tapping against the sharp point of his chin. “Remus Lupin was concerned, and came by to inform me. I have asked him to stay quiet about the situation until this evening, when he will be coming by for an explanation.”

“An explanation,” Salazar echoes, still scrambling for a suitable level of composure – yes, that seems a good idea. “Sate his curiosity so that he does not look elsewhere for answers and spread information. Did Harry’s classmates see…?”

“No,” Severus assures him at once. “No, this was after the lesson itself was over.”

“Thank Merlin…”

Salazar resigns himself to being unable to regain his bearings for the time being and instead sinks into his seat, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose – the scars on his palm unsettle him somewhat when he catches sight of them, a reminder of the desperation he displayed _in front of Harry_ to cling to Godric beyond all realms of possibility – and exhaling slowly through parted lips. That the spread of information is limited to one person is something he can work with, allowing him to manage the problems external to the family, if not so useful for the internal issues now arising.

_Better to know_ , he reminds himself, _than to remain ignorant of the problem._

“When will Lupin be arriving at your office?” he asks wearily.

“At some point after dinner – I’m not entirely sure of the exact time,” Severus admits. “Perhaps I could call you through by Floo once he has arrived?”

“It does,” Salazar allows, slow and careful as he thinks the idea over, “Prevent him from wondering how I might have arrived within the castle, if he sees me arrive by quite a reasonable mode of travel.”

Severus blinks, seeming to consider this, then nods his agreement. The last thing they need is for Lupin to hear of Salazar’s other mysterious appearances within Hogwarts grounds and start to question Salazar’s presence in Severus’s office for himself. Innocent explanations, Salazar finds, can often be overlooked if there is previous evidence to the contrary, and it would be most beneficial to ensure that the seed of doubt is never sown in Lupin’s mind in the first place.

The simple reasoning – the ebb and flow of foundational logic – settles him somewhat, fortunately, and soon enough he finds himself able to settle back into some semblance of composure, removing his hand from his nose to run through his hair instead as he does so.

“What to tell him…” he murmurs, Severus inclining his head in silence. “The vague truth, I suppose, is the best solution – but nothing that he doesn’t stand a chance of finding elsewhere or working out for himself.”

Humming in consideration, Severus curls the finger on his chin to stroke his jaw line contemplatively, but does not offer anything; Salazar sweeps onwards, already knowing not to expect a contribution.

“I am Salazar Potter, and I have been away for many years; only recently have I managed to return. Unfortunately, Harry has picked up that I do miss my previous way of life –” a sudden idea strikes him, and he slows his tone to voice it more cautiously, “– _and_ , as a result of being left for dead as a baby and growing up with the knowledge of how lucky he is to have survived, he fears abandonment above all else…”

Severus’s eyebrows rocket upwards, but he doesn’t shoot the idea down instantly, instead offering a slow, thoughtful nod – and then another, firmer jerk of the head in agreement.

“Bringing it down to trauma left over from Dumbledore’s actions,” the man concludes, seeming to roll the idea on his tongue and taste it as he speaks. “Risky – Lupin is the Headmaster’s through and through… But fully worth the reward if it pays off, I suppose. It’s hardly as though Dumbledore doesn’t know of your grudge against him.”

“Quite.”

“Very well,” Severus announces, and appears on the verge of standing up before something stills him, a speculative glint entering his gaze as he looks Salazar over.

“Is something the matter?” Salazar presses cautiously, irritated by his own inability to decipher the emotion behind such a stare.

To his surprise, Severus turns his head away, eyes flashing towards the fireplace as his lips thin to a white slash across his face, the faintly twitching muscles of his jaw tight.

“There is…” he hesitates, “One other thing which I wish to discuss with you.”

Salazar looks him over, taking in the tension and noting the continued avoidance of eye-contact to draw the most obvious conclusion.

“You do not think that I will take this well,” he observes, receiving no response for a moment before Severus shakes his head in reluctant confirmation.

“I… would have told Harry about this directly, but…”

His jaw clenches further, and when he continues, the gritting of his teeth with each word is audible.

“I wished to have your opinion on the potential repercussions of telling him beforehand,” he mutters stiffly. “I am worried that… with my lack of expertise, I am not the right person to judge whether or not Harry’s knowledge of the matter might bring negative consequences.”

“A matter of Harry’s reaction…?” Salazar tests, settling back into his chair when Severus shakes his head. “A matter of magic, then. Divination, I take it?”

Apprehension appears to grow in his companion by the second, but Severus manages a nod all the same.

“Well, this was always Rowena’s forte, not mine,” Salazar sighs, his own lips tugging down as the very air seems to thicken with the disquiet that Severus is feeling, “But I shall do my best.”

“That is all I can ask,” Severus bites out, now almost vibrating on the edge of his seat – a strange sight, given his usual stoic nature. “Not long before Harry’s birth, Dumbledore was interviewing for the Divination post, and during Sybill Trelawney’s appointment with him… She made a prophecy – her first and last, that I know of. That prophecy pertained to a child – ‘born as the seventh month dies’, to parents who have defied the Dark Lord –”

“Mr Riddle.”

“Mr Riddle,” Severus bites out, flashing a scowl in Salazar’s direction, but some of the tension in his features loosens visibly as he continues. “This child was said to have the power to vanquish _Mr Riddle_. There was more to the prophecy, but that –”

Severus takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, though his knuckles are white on the arms of his chair.

“That was all I heard – and all I told my master of.”

“You?” Salazar repeats quietly, even as everything starts to click into place.

Severus refuses to look at him, merely jerking his head in a single, miserable nod.

“He interpreted this prophecy as referring to Harry,” Salazar fills in. “He decided that the best course of action would be to kill Harry before Harry could hurt him.”

Another nod, and Salazar takes a breath to quell the rising anger, knowing that high levels of emotions will do little to help the situation; it does not work.

“This,” he grits out, hands trembling ever so slightly as he tries to fix them in his lap by threading his fingers, “Is why he came after my brother, isn’t it?”

Severus does not reply.

“ _Isn’t it_?” Salazar hisses, cold fury flooding his chest and squeezing his heart in an icy grip. “You told him about this prophecy, and he killed my brother for it – left Harry an _orphan_ , because you told him this _fucking_ prophecy.”

For a moment, Severus’s lips move soundlessly, until his tongue flicks out to wet them.

“Yes,” he croaks. “As soon as I realised – I went to Dumbledore. I told him everything. I – Believe me, Salazar, you cannot hate me more for this than I –”

“ _Really_?” Salazar sneers in disbelief and, though he knows he should stop, he cannot bring himself to; as ever, Harry’s well-being brings out emotions that normally stay well-hidden.

Unbidden rises the thought that Harry’s greatest fear is of Salazar leaving him, which would never be the case if not for Severus’s actions. If Riddle had never learnt of the prophecy, then James and his wife would still be alive; Salazar would have had his brother – his _twin_ – to return to, and Harry would never have been left behind by them. Salazar would not have to fill the space left in their wake, a space which he finds does not fit him particularly well. He loves Harry, he has successfully filled the role of magical guardian, and he will continue to strive to protect Harry for as long as he can, but he was not prepared to take on a parental role, even when he agreed to stay with the Dursleys. He is not cut out to be a nurturing figure, a responsibility which he has found himself saddled with increasingly as Harry draws away from Vernon and Petunia.

_He is not an inherently good person._ That was always Godric’s job and, although James was perhaps more prone to outright cruelty, that in itself stemmed from his ability to understand others’ feelings. Salazar’s knowledge of the inner workings of others is limited to manipulating it to his own goals, most of the time, and _never_ has he felt comfortable or settled in the position that James – and possibly James’s wife as well – should have had in Harry’s life.

All of this could have been avoided if Severus had not spilled everything to Riddle.

“You hated my brother – don’t think I don’t know that!” he snaps, then forces steadiness back into his tone to continue. “Why would _you_ regret this?”

Severus’s bark of laughter is surprisingly bitter.

“ _Lily_ was my best friend!” the man spits back, pushing up and out of his seat to glower down at Salazar; there is no point in standing himself when he would not gain the physical height that such an action affords Severus, so Salazar stays where he is and instead injects a casual air into his posture. “She was my only friend, even – for many years! Then _I_ made a mistake and lost that, but I _never_ – not once – stopped loving her! If you think I will _ever_ forgive myself for what I did, then there is little more to be said on the matter.”

_Well,_ that _is something of a surprise_ , Salazar has to concede, though it does not stop his ire from rising through instinct alone – a primal response to the angry figure looming over him, and a result of the growing realisation that this prophecy is the root of _so many problems_ , and if it had _just_ stayed away from those whom it might affect…

“Never mind that I care _deeply_ for Harry – you do not hold a monopoly on that, _Potter_ –”

“Do _not_ call me that!”

At once, Salazar bites down on the inside of his cheek, irritation at his own impulsive reaction swamping him to douse the flames of his anger, and, with a deep breath, he shakes his head to clear it.

“My apologies, Severus,” he continues smoothly, bottling up the internal storm of cursing for another time. “I should not have doubted you; I was unaware of your relationship with… _Lily_ , and admittedly am rather emotional myself.”

“Do not think that you can simply distract me from your aversion to your own –”

“ _With regard to the prophecy_ ,” Salazar bites out, forceful as he glares up at his companion, “If Riddle has already accepted it, then Harry hearing of it should not make any difference to its power – certainly, nothing that could outweigh the benefits of discovering the full contents of the prophecy. Of course, without _knowing_ the entirety of the prophecy, I cannot speak to the effect that hearing it might have on Harry emotionally.”

Severus blinks.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” the man concedes, slowly backing away to sink into his own chair once more.

Sighing, Salazar nods and mulls it over in his head.

“Leave it with me,” he settles for. “I’ll get back to you.”

For a moment, silence falls; Salazar does his level best to ignore Severus’s considering stare as he tries to decide whether or not to make excuses for his small outburst or simply brush over it. Better not to address it at all, he settles on, given their first topic of discussion. The last thing he needs is for Severus himself to start suspecting that Salazar might consider leaving.

“Pleasant as this conversation has been, I have some business with Quirinus which I really must start if I am to come to Hogwarts this evening,” he announces calmly, meeting Severus’s eyes and pretending not to notice the scepticism within that narrowed gaze. “I’ll see you later, Severus.”

Severus purses his lips, but stands without protest and nods.

“Of course,” he murmurs, turning to the fireplace.

Silent, Salazar watches him leave, then draws in a breath to compose himself and pushes out of his chair, smoothing down his robes as he does so. He has much to think about, but for now, there is indeed much also to be discussed with Quirinus, mostly on the subject of horcruxes and whatever ideas they might be able to gather on what the containers might be or where they could be hidden.

Quirinus is, as expected, settled by a window in the library, reading by the cool light of the September sun. Though he appears entirely immersed in his book, he looks up expectantly the moment Salazar enters, sliding his bookmark between the open pages and setting the thick text aside to stand.

“Enlightening conversation?” he asks, fingers lingering just slightly longer than necessary on the book.

“Interesting read?” Salazar returns, a deflection as much as anything.

Quirinus bows his head, not commenting on the matter. If there is one thing that Salazar could say he particularly likes about the man, it is that Quirinus does not ask questions when it comes to Salazar’s secrets; he simply accepts that they exist and moves on as if he is not bothered by the idea of missing large pieces of information pertaining to his very environment.

“You need not stand on my part,” Salazar continues with a gesture for Quirinus to sit once more. “There is a conversation to be had, and it would be best held where notes can be made.”

Briefly, Quirinus hesitates, before sinking back into his seat to wait while Salazar conjures a second chair, parchment, and a pencil – a convenient writing utensil that he has grown fond of over the last few years.

“Please understand that I would not ask you to discuss these things if it were not important,” he begins briskly, not bothering to soften his tone; such an approach would put Quirinus on edge anyway. “Anything and everything you know of Riddle, I ask that you tell me.”

Quirinus’s eyes slip closed, and Salazar waits patiently as his companion draws in a deep breath.

“I knew this was coming,” Quirinus mutters, resigned. “…I’m surprised you waited so long.”

“I can be patient,” Salazar reasons, slightly taken aback, though he thinks that he might know where Quirinus is coming from.

“Well…” Quirinus hesitates, eyes flicking warily up to meet Salazar’s. “Yes, but the first time you spoke to me, you did threaten to kill me slowly and painfully. I wasn’t sure you’d see the _need_ for patience.”

That, Salazar has to concede, is a reasonable point. Bowing his head in easy acknowledgement, he taps his conjured pencil lightly against the desk between them.

“The well-being of those in my House is my responsibility, Quirinus,” he reminds, nonetheless. “I thought it prudent to show restraint – but now, I would prefer not to wait any longer than entirely necessary.”

“Once the children are out of the way, crack on with the dangerous bits?” Quirinus fills in with a small smile, though the expression falls in seconds. “And with Riddle coming back, of course. Right, well… What exactly do you need to know?”

Leaning forwards, Salazar catches the other man’s gaze and rests his hand on the desk, ready to set pencil to parchment.

“ _Everything_ ,” he enunciates firmly. “Even the smallest of details. Anything and everything you can tell me about Riddle – his mannerisms, his likes, his dislikes, his temperament. Any obsessions, any opinions – even knowledge which you would consider public. If you have found it to be true from your time with him, it must come out.”

The flow of information is at first little more than a trickle but, as the initial memories trigger further recollections, it quickens until Salazar decides that he would rather not have to focus on scribbling frantically and instead sets the pencil to work of its own accord with a small injection of magic, turning his focus to prodding Quirinus down certain paths with questions, exploring each possible avenue and wringing every last morsel of information from each word out of Quirinus’s mouth. Soon enough, a picture starts to form of an arrogant but charismatic man – charming, magically powerful and intelligent, but caught up in his own virtues and unwilling to acknowledge what he considered to be ‘blights’ on his heritage. Tom Riddle, it appears, is obsessed with lineage, both his own and others, and beyond that, highly sentimental.

“He seemed very fond of Hogwarts,” Quirinus observes after some time of being prompted down that last route by Salazar. “He was interested in the Founders’ legacy – and in Salazar Slytherin particularly. I… Well, suffice to say, he was very interested in the Founders. Then there was also a room we visited once – I hadn’t seen it before. On the seventh floor, I think, with piles of old treasures and junk inside. He wanted to see some sort of crown – a tiara, might be more appropriate. I couldn’t say what it was connected to…”

Salazar blinks at him, struggling for any kind of meaningful response as Quirinus’s words sink in, and only when Quirinus continues speaking, oblivious to Salazar’s internal battle, does he manage to lift a hand and stop the man in his tracks.

“This… ‘tiara’,” he ventures carefully. “Could you describe it to me? And where, exactly, was this room? Do you think you could find its location again, and identify the tiara?”

Frowning, Quirinus appears to collect his thoughts.

“Well, it looked like it could have been silver,” he begins carefully, “But with accents of a different metal – bronze or gold or similar. The room… It appeared out of nowhere. We paced up and down a corridor for some time beforehand, but I couldn’t say which corridor, I’m afraid.”

_Ah, the Come and Go Room._

“I know the one,” Salazar assures. “Excellent…”

If Riddle is interested in Rowena’s diadem – and Salazar feels reasonably certain that Rowena’s diadem is indeed the ‘tiara’ described – then it is highly likely that this is one of his horcruxes, hidden within Hogwarts itself. Further, if Riddle is interested in an artefact left behind by Rowena, then this could be a useful lead.

Checking the time, Salazar frowns with the realisation that they have missed their usual lunchtime by a good two hours, but there is nothing to be done. He has a meeting with the Minister to prepare for, and they have more than enough to work with for the time being.

“Quirinus, I’d appreciate it if you could research Riddle’s heritage – his mother, his father, any lines from which he might be descended, or might believe himself to be descended from. Alongside that, I will require a list of all artefacts, treasures, and possessions left behind by the Founders that might still exist today.”

Biting back a smile at Quirinus’s excitement in the face of such extensive research projects, Salazar nods his farewell and rises to ready himself for an afternoon with Minister Fudge.

The bathwater is just starting to lose its warmth when a knock rings throughout the room, but that does not reduce Salazar’s reluctance in lifting himself into a sitting position, clear droplets running down his skin as the water around him sloshes gently with the motion.

“Yes?” he calls, grimacing at the faint rasp of his voice.

“Dinner is being served, Salazar!” comes the muffled squeak, Salazar concentrating for a moment to identify which house-elf is talking to him before responding.

“Thank you, Tipsy. I’ll be there soon enough.”

“Yes, Salazar!” Tipsy replies, the words followed by the unmistakeable pop of house-elf apparition.

Sighing, Salazar considers slumping back down into the cooling water but ultimately decides against it, instead fixing his hands on the side of the tub and pushing up. If there were more time, he would likely have cast a warming charm and stayed there a good hour longer, but the last thing he needs is to skip a second meal today, given the fast-approaching encounter with Remus Lupin – and, certainly, it would not be good to miss the meeting itself – so, reluctantly, he dresses and makes his way downstairs for dinner.

On entering the dining room, he finds Quirinus waiting for him, seemingly unsurprised that Salazar has chosen to eat here rather than with Vernon and Petunia. That, in all fairness, is rather unsurprising in itself, given that Salazar makes little effort to hide his dislike of his brother’s in-laws or their ongoing conflict.

“I’ve found a few leads which might be of interest,” Quirinus offers as soon as Salazar is sat. “There are actually several well-known artefacts left behind by the Founders – though that might just be a Hogwarts thing…”

Salazar ignores the other man’s apologetic stare, not in the mood for any form of pity when it comes to his schooling or perceived lack thereof.

“Of course, I’ll look for more, but I thought I might as well mention those – there’s Gryffindor’s sword, Ravenclaw’s lost diadem, Hufflepuff’s cup and Slytherin’s locket.”

“Slytherin’s locket?” Salazar echoes, utterly bemused.

“I couldn’t tell you what it looks like,” Quirinus admits. “I thought maybe you’d…? Well, I imagine it won’t take long to find descriptions.”

Absent-minded, Salazar nods his agreement. What locket could Quirinus possibly be referring to that someone might have assumed to be his?

“Anyway, I’m not sure where you could find any of them, but I _have_ started looking into his heritage – I think I’ll have to access muggle records to go further…”

Trailing off, Quirinus frowns down at his plate in apparent thought, his mind seeming to wander elsewhere.

“Oh?” Salazar prompts, waiting patiently while Quirinus draws himself from his thoughts.

“Well, I believe that his father might have been muggle,” Quirinus explains, as though that is not one of the most ridiculous things that Salazar has ever heard, “So I’d like to look into muggle birth records and attempt to find where they lived – see what I can find about his background. Is there anything in particular I should be looking for?”

Salazar mulls the question over, turning it in his head as he considers how much to tell Quirinus. He does intend to explain the horcrux situation at some point, but now is certainly not an appropriate moment for that and, beyond the specifics, there are still particular pieces of information that might be more useful than others.

“Any locations that might hold even a hint of sentimental value, I’d like a list of,” he begins slowly, recalling his suspicions that a horcrux might be hidden within Hogwarts, “And besides that, anything at all pertaining to his heritage – particularly any magical heritage he might have.”

Somehow, Salazar doubts that Riddle’s mother will be non-magical as well; that Riddle is a half-blood is surprising, but it seems very much unlikely that he would instead be a muggleborn. Hopefully, her family will have some significant history to explore, though Salazar know that he should be careful not to let his hopes rise too high.

“Alright…” Quirinus sighs. “Have you thought of looking in Gringotts?”

Taken aback, Salazar finds that he does not have an immediate response to that, although the answer is certainly no.

“If you’re looking for places that someone might choose to keep something safe,” Quirinus adds. “These items you’re looking for, whatever they are – they’re precious to him, aren’t they? It might not necessarily be the best hiding place, but if no one can reach it anyway…”

Shaking away his self-directed irritation at not having thought of Gringotts sooner, Salazar nods in careful consideration.

“Therein lies our problem – beyond, of course, that we’d have no idea which one to look in,” he points out. “One does not simply walk into another’s Gringotts vault.”

“It’s not _impossible_.”

Salazar has to chuckle softly at that, shaking his head amusedly at Quirinus’s self-satisfied smile.

“No,” he agrees, “It is not. All the same, a peaceful approach might be better suited as our first options. Goblins do not take so kindly to methods of ‘cheating death’, after all – they might agree to help on their own morals.”

“They like you, too,” Quirinus reasons, quiet as his eyes drift away from Salazar, a clear sign that he is losing himself in his thoughts. “For a human, that is.”

“What a wonderful standard to be held to,” Salazar replies dryly. “We shall have to look into it.”

The other problem with horcruxes is, unfortunately, that Salazar has simply no idea how many Riddle might have made. ‘More than one’ is not a particularly limiting number to apply to their search and, while it is all very well to consider which numbers might hold significance in some way or another, there is no guarantee that Riddle had reached any number that he might have planned when his body was unexpectedly displaced in Godric’s Hollow.

As much as Salazar would rather destroy each part of Riddle’s soul separately and remove the possibility of a return in the first place, he needs to be able to see the main part of Riddle’s soul – with full certainty that it _is_ the main part – in order to determine exactly what is missing. Riddle will simply have to return for that and as such, as little as Salazar likes the prospect, it seems that the previous Dark Lord’s resurrection is a necessary evil.

Salazar can only hope that they will be prepared when such an event comes to pass.

Remus Lupin is, much as Salazar remembers from their early adolescence, a polite, soft-spoken man and, as much as Salazar dislikes the incessant flickering of Lupin’s gaze in his direction, he cannot begrudge his brother’s old friend the chance to stare. He knows that, although they have their distinct differences, he and James share many similarities, and he cannot help but suspect that this experience is, to Lupin, rather like seeing a ghost.

“I rather assumed that Harry’s eyes came from Lily,” the man manages finally, the first time he has spoken since Severus and Salazar finished their semi-truthful explanation. “I’d forgotten that your eyes – the Potter eyes…”

Sometime, Salazar thinks, it might be prudent to find a picture of Lily, to understand exactly what everyone means about the eyes. Harry has some, he knows, given to him by Petunia, but Salazar does not feel the slightest bit comfortable with the thought of asking Harry for an image of the boy’s mother to satisfy his own curiosity.

“Well…” Lupin continues, seeming to shake himself but apparently unable to keep his gaze from wandering back to Salazar’s features. “You’ll be… dealing with the issue, then?”

“I will,” Salazar confirms with a short nod. “Rest assured, I will not allow this problem to lie.”

Lupin mirrors the nod, still a little dazed, then glances to Severus, Salazar following his gaze to watch the Potions Master lift an eyebrow.

“Satisfied?” Severus drawls, dark eyes flickering briefly to Salazar before fixing on Lupin once more, and Salazar makes a mental note not to spend any more time than entirely necessary with Severus once Lupin is gone, lest he find himself pressed to explain his impulsive reaction this morning.

Fortunately, he has other business to attend to within Hogwarts, which he intends to be done with as quickly as possible.

“Yes,” Lupin agrees weakly. “Yes, that’s fine. I should be going now – Salazar… It’s – It’s good to see you. James would be…”

Lupin does not finish the sentence, merely trailing off into silence for several seconds before shaking himself and turning away.

“Severus.”

“Lupin,” Severus returns, waiting only until the probable-werewolf is gone to direct his attention back towards Salazar. “That went well enough.”

“It was adequate,” Salazar allows stiffly, drawing in a breath to quench the anger rising now that he has found himself alone with Severus. “Excuse me, I have business to attend to in the castle. I will not require the use of your fireplace to return, so I bid you goodnight now.”

Severus snorts, dry and unamused.

“You can’t run from your problems forever, Salazar,” he cautions.

Drawing the Invisibility Cloak from within the pouch at his waist, Salazar elects to ignore the other man by focusing on ensuring that the smooth material covers every inch of his body before stepping and turning, Eavan’s chamber clear in his mind’s eye. He has two stops to make before he can return to Potter Manor and join Quirinus in research, and he does not plan to take any longer than necessary on either.

The chamber is as dank and dark as the last time Salazar visited, slimy walls looming from within the gloom as water splashes at his feet, and his nose crinkles at the sight and smell of it as he promises internally to come back when he has the time and restore the place to its former glory. Nevertheless, now is not the time; he has a specific purpose here, after all.

It is with a silent apology to his departed friend that he starts the process of draining Eavan’s venom from her body, storing the toxic liquid in strongly warded vials and tucking those into his robes; he does not dare store them inside his magically-expanded pouch, for fear of the warding failing or the venom becoming corrupted. Such scenarios are unlikely, but the consequences would be devastating. It is simply not worth the risk.

Once every drop of venom has been drawn forth and stoppered away, he moves on to the Come-and-Go Room. There, it is easy to find Rowena’s diadem with some assistance from Hogwarts – the items all around him might have been placed here with the express purpose of hiding them, but it would be foolish to create such magical feats without any ability to override them – and, with a sad half-smile, he watches one carefully-administered drop of venom eat away at the metallic legacy of his friend until a scream wrenches itself forth and black smoke pours from the broken diadem.

Two down; countless more to go. It is simply unfortunate that such vital progress must come with the destruction of some of the last links that Salazar has to his identity.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Madainn mhath, ciamar a tha sibh?
> 
> Actually, that's probably going to be the last time I greet you all like that. Because of how my schedule of work is turning out at uni, I'm going to adjust the update schedule slightly; instead of Saturday mornings, I'll be giving you new chapters on Sunday afternoons instead (UK time). I'm also getting closer to where I've currently written up to, but hopefully, as I settle into uni life, I'll be able not only to pick up more of the writing again, but also to regain my normal schedule of going back and proof-reading chapters before sending them to the lovely people who then proof-read them *again* for me.
> 
> To summarise: from next weekend on, new chapters will come on Sunday afternoons in my time zone, so less 'madainn mhath' and more 'feasgar math'. Beyond that, I hope you enjoy!

Bouncing lightly on his toes, Harry combs his fingers through the silken feathers of his beloved owl, Hedwig, and stares out of the window at the frosty castle grounds as he waits for Hermione to finish reading her letter. They don’t have long before the study group starts, and Harry would rather like to be there early to support his plans of solidifying his position as a leader within the year – he likes to think that Salazar would be proud of the detail he has thought through in this. He has to appear calm and composed; answer any questions that his peers might have about his lordship, politics, or anything at all; and take control of organisation and planning as much as possible. He might only be thirteen, but he needs his peers to look up to him and view him as a guide for them.

He might only be thirteen, but he’d like to live a long and happy life, not a short and carefree one, and if this is the way that Salazar says will offer the best chance of that, then Harry trusts his uncle to know best.

As Hermione continues to read, he turns his thoughts to the conversation he had with Master Snape this morning, during which his master – having ensured that they had already spoken about all aspects of Harry’s well-being and worries – explained the basic theory of the Mind Arts over first, breakfast and then the batch of Pepper-Up Potion intended for Madam Pomfrey. It is all about the organisation of the mind, to better sculpt it for the functions desired of it – to remember, to learn, to remain calm, to shield, to slip into others’ minds…

To do that, Harry will first need to become familiar with his own mind, so that is the task set out for Monday. Master Snape did not explain exactly what it would entail, but Harry cannot wait to find out.

“Alright, let’s go,” Hermione declares finally, flashing him a smile as she starts for the door, and Harry pushes away from the wall he has been leaning against with one last ruffle of Hedwig’s feathers to bound after his friend; better to get all of this nervous energy out when it’s just the two of them than find himself jittering all the way through the afternoon.

The study group is, fortunately, easy to get caught up in, not least because most of his housemates have taken to warning the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors about the boggart and discussing their own boggart forms in turn, which leads to Harry putting half of his effort into avoiding any attention of unwanted kinds and the rest into trying not to get too stressed about his upcoming conversation with Salazar. Not for the first time, he finds himself distinctly glad that, however misguided Professor Lupin’s intentions might have been, he didn’t have to face his boggart in class.

Seriously, though – who thinks it’s okay to force people to face their greatest current fears in front of their peers? Harry likes to think that he’s self-aware enough to know that he’d hate having to reveal such a thing, even if there weren’t secrets involved, to his classmates, and it’s painfully obvious that this conversation is largely an attempt to cover up his housemates’ discomfort on the matter.

Overall, the time passes quickly and, before Harry knows it, he has half an hour before he’s meant to be meeting Salazar at the Hogwarts gates – a comfortable timeframe for changing into formal robes, freshening up to present the right image, and meeting with Master Snape to be walked down to said gates. Pushing up from his seat to stretch, he starts to excuse himself, only to run into Ron, who seems anxious to talk to him.

“Something wrong?” Harry asks carefully, relaxing at the shake of Ron’s head.

“Nah, just wanted to ask something,” the other boy assures him. “I had an idea, and you seem like the person to run it by.”

Trying not to appear too satisfied on hearing that, Harry nods in silent prompt.

“See…” Ron hesitates. “My sister’s in her second year, and she’s been saying over the summer that she wishes her year had some kind of tutoring system or a group like this… And it got me thinking – what if some of us could spend some time working with the Second-Years, or even the First-Years? Help them out a bit or something, I don’t know. I’m not good with details or anything like that – it was just an idea…”

Ron shrugs uncomfortably, clearly on the verge of slinking away, so Harry holds out a hand to show that he’s only thinking. He has so much on his plate this year – the apprenticeship, the Wizengamot, Sirius Black, learning the Patronus and how to defend himself, more homework, trying to stay fit… The list goes on. At the end of it, however, is building connections and establishing himself as a leader, and this sounds like a good road to go down for something like that. If he can start making waves in the lower years, then that’s almost half of the school, and surely even the fact that Ron has come to _him_ with this idea can be worked with.

“I think that sounds like an excellent idea,” he tells the other boy. “I can’t talk more about it now, but maybe at some point this coming week…? Assuming you want to stay involved in it.”

“ _Me_?” Ron squeaks, and seems to flounder for a second. “I’m not – I didn’t –”

“It’s fine if not,” Harry adds quickly, though he can’t help but think that getting Ron involved would be helpful for solidifying the unity of the year-group; Ron has always been the weak link, in that respect. “I can take it from here if you’d like, maybe work it through with Hermione –”

“No, that sounds, um…” Ron clears his throat. “I’d like to be involved in that. Yeah. Thanks, Harry.”

Lifting a shoulder, Harry provides a small grin to ease the last of Ron’s nerves.

“No problem, mate,” he assures, patting Ron’s shoulder and moving on towards the door.

_What a blessing – and from quite an unexpected source at that_.

The idea cycles through Harry’s head while he prepares up in Ravenclaw Tower, revolving onwards within the confines of his skull while he makes his way down to the Entrance Hall to meet Master Snape, and it’s still going when they draw close enough to the gates of Hogwarts to see Salazar waiting beyond, a silver lion prowling in silent majesty at his side; Harry tries not to stare at it too hard, taken aback by the elegant size of the beast even as he tries to ignore the blatant display of Salazar’s attachment to his ex-lover. The effort is made all the more difficult by the undeniable relief that the Patronus brings from the chill of the dementors.

“Harry!” Salazar greets warmly when the gates have opened, drawing Harry into a brief but firm hug before stepping back to nod in Master Snape’s direction. “Severus.”

“Salazar.”

There is something distinctly curt in the exchange, but it doesn’t take much for Harry to decide not to ask after it, instead offering his master a smile before turning expectantly to Salazar.

“Ready?” Salazar asks, settling a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and much like the lion, the burns scarred permanently into the fingers in the corner of Harry’s eyes are an unwelcome reminder of how deeply Salazar values Godric above all else.

This will be an uncomfortable conversation, that much is clear.

“Yeah,” he manages, tearing his focus away from the mottled twisting of Salazar’s flesh and bracing himself for the apparition; at least it won’t be _through_ the Hogwarts wards this time.

That is not, however, to say that it is a pleasant experience in the slightest.

“Stay upright,” Salazar murmurs on arrival as Harry moves instinctively to bend double, ears still ringing from the horrific squeezing sensation. “No weakness, remember?”

Grimacing, Harry nods and forces himself upright. He might not be trying to act more mature than his age – almost the opposite, in fact – but he still cannot afford to show outright vulnerability.

“Good,” Salazar tells him approvingly, patting his back as they start to walk the now-familiar route to the Wizengamot chambers. “Now, I’m going to have to take a slight detour, but I’ll join you before you enter the chambers.”

Harry blinks, a little taken aback.

“As…?”

He doesn’t dare finish the question, too aware of the potential for prying ears or eyes, but Salazar seems to understand.

“I believe that it is time to start presenting a slightly more united front,” his uncle explains softly. “We require a rallying point if we wish to take a stand against either Dumbledore or Riddle, never mind the two simultaneously. Certainly, we cannot recruit without something for defectors from the Light and Dark to join.”

With those words, Salazar turns and slips through the crowd, Harry continuing on towards the chambers with no small amount of uncertainty; is he supposed to wait outside for Salazar to join him before going in? Wouldn’t that look a little clumsy? He tries to keep tabs on Salazar out of the corner of his eye, but the man threads his way through the thronging Ministry officials, walks past a pillar and never comes out the other side, leaving Harry to twist his fingers nervously and pretend to be entirely unbothered by his own uncertainty – or rather, to not have any uncertainty to be bothered about in the first place.

“Harry, you’re looking well.”

Harry blinks up at his uncle – or rather, the dark space beneath his uncle’s hood – and tries not to look too shocked that Salazar has somehow come from the other side of the Atrium in full Lord Slytherin get-up, only a minute or two after heading off in the other direction.

“I’m feeling it, too,” he returns, pushing down his shock and curiosity in favour of presenting a polite but familiar greeting. “I’d say the same to you, but I can’t see enough to really know if that’s the case.”

Salazar chuckles softly, falling into step at his side as though there is nothing in the slightest bit odd about wandering through the Ministry of Magic with a thirteen-year-old whom he supposedly barely knows at his side. Harry likes to think that they actually look quite cool, but he rather doubts that such a thing would be the case.

“I plan to raise concerns over the dementors again,” Salazar tells him as they approach the large doors of the Wizengamot chambers. “Would you be willing to describe the incident on the train?”

Hesitating, Harry resists the urge to let his fingers fiddle with each other any further or chew his lip.

“How much?” he asks.

“However much you feel comfortable with,” Salazar promises. “Just the general details, if you’d like, though it would be helpful to have your personal account. Playing the sympathy card is not always undesirable.”

“I know,” Harry assures him, and can’t resist the urge to point out, “My uncle did it this summer.”

Salazar glances down at him, undoubtedly amused behind his magical façade.

“Did he, now?” comes the light enquiry, as Lady Greengrass passes by and glances ever so subtly in their direction. “Does your uncle teach you a lot about politics?”

“He does,” Harry confirms, “But he’s very good at keeping his own opinions out unless I ask for them.”

“I should hope so…” Salazar muses.

Taking a deep breath, Harry steels his resolve and continues, mind set firmly on his conversations with Master Snape both on Friday evening and this morning.

“He’s taught me a lot about life in general, actually,” he admits. “He’s given a lot for me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

For a moment, Salazar does not respond, Harry waiting slightly anxiously as they take their seats and one of his uncle’s legs crosses over the other.

“Perhaps you can tell me more about him later,” Salazar offers finally, as good a confirmation as Harry suspects that he’s going to get of their conversation to come.

The Wizengamot session itself is rather dull, and Harry spends the majority of his time listening in silence and watching the reactions of the adults who he supposes are now technically his peers, as strange a thought as that is. The only time he speaks is when he rises to support Salazar’s argument that dementors should not be placed on Hogwarts grounds. Nothing comes from it, ultimately, though Salazar does not seem overly surprised by that, merely settling back into his seat to re-cross his legs. When proceedings have moved on, however, Salazar leans over, voice lowered to a murmur next to Harry’s ear.

“We’ll remain for at least half an hour after this session, understand? And then we leave together. Today, our front is fully united, and we start to tug lightly on those who might agree with our wider aims but aren’t yet aware of it.”

A little confused, Harry turns to squint as imperceptibly as possible at his uncle.

“Why are we discussing this _now_?” he whispers. “In front of everyone?”

Although he can’t see it, Harry suspects that Salazar is smiling.

“There are privacy wards up; all that can be gleaned is that Lord Slytherin and Lord Potter are having a rather fascinating conversation that no one else is privy to.”

Which, of course, only adds to the impression of a united front. _Right_.

Slowly, Harry nods and returns his gaze to the ongoing proceedings, listening in silence as Salazar continues.

“We’ll be going to Potter Manor via the Floo network after that.”

The Floo network – a good way to travel if you want to broadcast your destination, Harry guesses. In full range of any curious ears, he’ll be inviting Lord Slytherin back to his family home – though no one will know exactly what the topic of their subsequent conversation will be. Nervously, Harry fights the urge to squirm a little in his seat and, unable to bring himself to speak through the growing apprehension, settles for a nod to confirm the plan. There’s nothing to do now but wait and hope that whatever comes out in an hour or two won’t damage their relationship at all.

Unfortunately, the knowledge that he’s stuck in this now does little to ease his worries regarding the situation.

Unnoticed by their nearby peers, Salazar’s hand settles gently on Harry’s forearm and squeezes in soft reassurance.

“Tell me about your boggart.”

Salazar clearly isn’t in the mood to beat around the bush, and the words are not so much a request as an order. Swallowing, Harry nods and sucks in a deep breath, trying not to fidget with the full weight of his uncle’s frown fixed upon him. He’s about to get into it when a thought strikes him, and he finds himself faltering, eyeing Salazar warily.

“If I’m going to be honest with you…” he starts, not feeling the need to finish the sentence as Salazar inclines his head with the faintest of smiles.

There is little joy in the expression.

“I cannot promise to tell you everything but, where possible, I will be as clear as I can.”

Harry supposes that he isn’t going to get anything better.

“My boggart,” he begins and has to stop to clear his throat, his voice seeming to scratch a little painfully. “My boggart was, um, you. Like you were…”

_Merlin_ , he doesn’t want to discuss this.

“Like you were when you came to the Chamber of Secrets.”

Slowly, one eyebrow lifts in a delicate arch, Salazar’s finger – scarred where flames licked hungrily at the flesh – curling lightly over his lips as he seems to wait for Harry to elaborate. Nervous, Harry struggles for the words he needs to describe his uncle’s weakened condition to the man himself.

“You – You looked like you were going to collapse. You didn’t look like you’d slept, or – or eaten… I was really worried about you – and I guess I still am,” he adds in the interest of full honesty, “And of course I already had been.”

“You sent Severus to check on me?” Salazar asks, not a hint of his true feelings on the matter showing in either his tone or his features; for a man who has just agreed to be as clear with Harry as possible, he seems to be keeping his cards awfully close to his chest.

“I asked him if he could do anything, back in – last September,” Harry corrects himself, momentarily stunned by the realisation that it has been about a year since. “I didn’t know he visited. I just asked him about the Purification Potion and said I was worried.”

He wants to ask more, but somehow, it seems like a dangerous topic.

“I think it might have been November,” Salazar volunteers, to his relief. “I… was not keeping track of time particularly well. It was after Samhain, at any rate. He gave me a lot to think about.”

“In a good way?” Harry can’t resist pressing.

With a sigh, Salazar shifts his position, one leg crossing over the other as his hands fall to rest on the arms of his chair, fingers tapping the polished wood in regular beats.

“I would say so,” he allows. “He… made a good point about the necessity of my being in your life not being the deciding factor in whether or not I _should_ stay.”

“I need you here,” Harry blurts out at once, because there’s really no other way to interpret Salazar’s words than that the man doesn’t agree with that sentiment. “I _do_. Salazar, I mean it –”

“You don’t _need_ me, Harry,” Salazar corrects gently, lifting a finger to keep Harry from voicing the objections that fight to spill forth. “You have a lot of people who can support you in all aspects of life. Well, that was certainly the case from all available information at the time. However, Severus made the rather excellent point that aiming for the bare minimum is not my usual style; certainly, I did not wish it to be the case where you are concerned.”

It takes Harry several seconds to wrap his head around exactly what Salazar has just said. When he finally has it all settled, he can’t stop himself from opening his mouth once more.

“So that persuaded you to stay?” he prods, Salazar’s hesitation doing nothing to quell his anger. “Instead of going… just… _somewhere else_?”

“I –”

“Because if you weren’t planning to leave, _why weren’t you wearing the amulet when you came to Hogwarts_?”

Salazar does not seem to have anything to say to that, and his silence is horribly telling. Eyes stinging with tears, Harry blinks rapidly in a vain attempt to hide his distress even as the frustration locked deep within his chest grows.

“You still wanted to leave then, so I don’t see how Master Snape supposedly had so much impact on you. You – You just turned up looking dead on your feet, without the amulet on, and then you literally _grabbed a burning stone_ because you’re so not over your dead boyfriend that you’d rather take even the smallest chance of being with him over me – over everything here,” he corrects hurriedly, “And I’m _not_ supposed to worry that you’d want to leave? It’s obvious you do! I – I watched that memory, and you’ve never smiled like that since you came here, I _know_ you haven’t. And I know it – it’s selfish to want you to stay here anyway, okay? But even though I – I know you’d be happier there, I still do want you here, because you’re my – my uncle, and I love you, and I just want to – to be e – enough…”

Harry buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs that he can barely repress as he wills his cheeks to stop burning quite so desperately, but his efforts are to no avail. He can detect no movement or sound from Salazar, less than two metres away in an identical chair to Harry’s even though they might as well be on opposite sides of the world right now. Somehow, the lack of reaction is worse than any response Harry might have dreamt up, shame and apprehension cinching tight in his lungs with the grief, anger and frustration that have only just started to worm their way from their cage.

Harry’s fingers tremble as he balls the digits on one hand into a fist to press against his mouth, trying to muffle the sounds of his distress with no success. Every breath seems to roar in his ears, shaking and shuddering wetly as his ribcage heaves for air and fire burns across his face; distantly, he thinks that Salazar might attempt to say something, but Harry can’t hear any of it over his own crying, and the words die out in seconds.

Salazar knows, now – that’s the bottom line. Salazar knows that Harry is fully aware of his own inadequacy in comparison to Godric Gryffindor and that Harry wants to keep his uncle here even knowing that it would mean sacrificing Salazar’s happiness. He knows how desperately selfish Harry has been lately, and he knows everything else, too. Harry didn’t mean to say all of that – or any of it, really – but it’s out there now, and there’s nothing he can about it but wait for Salazar’s disappointment.

Curling in on himself, he bites down on his dampened knuckles and feels tears mix with snot over his lips, his head starting to pound with each desperate hitch in his throat, though the pain is nothing compared to the knowledge that Salazar has not moved or even tried to deny anything that Harry has said.

He hasn’t even _tried_.

“Are you even going to say _anything_?” Harry hears himself demand, his voice as choked as he feels, and with his tears drying to leave his eyes raw and swollen, he chances a glance up to his uncle’s face only to freeze with the realisation that Salazar, too, is crying – a lot more quietly, but with little more grace besides that. “…Salazar?”

Salazar shakes his head, thumb and index shifting down from his temples to squeeze the bridge of his nose instead as his other hand twitches; Harry jumps slightly as a glass of water appears on the low table between them, well within reach. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches out to take it, waiting only a beat longer before swallowing it down in several greedy – if rather shaky – gulps and immediately wishing that he’d saved some to drink more slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters after another minute, though he’s not entirely sure what, exactly, he’s apologising for.

Causing Salazar pain, probably. Whatever he meant to achieve with that spiel – if anything, because it was really more of an uncontrolled spillage – this wasn’t it.

“Don’t be,” Salazar rasps, still not moving his hand or making any effort to look at Harry. “Honesty was the policy for the evening. I’d rather… know that you feel that way than leave you to suffer in silence. If anything, I should be apologising for not clarifying things sooner.”

With a deep breath, he seems to compose himself, shoulders rising and falling once before he looks up with a fresh face, no evidence of tears in sight. For some reason, the illusion bothers Harry.

“Can you not?” he asks, more harshly than he intended, but is rewarded with the glamours that Salazar must have set up falling instantly, his uncle seeming to know intrinsically what he meant. “That’s… better.”

Salazar looks as much a wreck as Harry feels, which is saying something. His eyes are red and swollen, his face drawn – pale aside from deeply flushed cheeks – and his lips trembling out of beat with his hands as his gaze darts anywhere but Harry’s face.

“I won’t deny that I was still considering leaving in some capacity or another when I came to the chamber,” he allows slowly, eyes finally falling to meet Harry’s, “And that seeing Godric again felt like everything I’d wanted. I was… _devastated_ to lose him yet again –”

Lips twisting with obvious grief, Salazar seems to take a moment to compose himself.

“But there was… It was closure, of a kind. A chance to truly say farewell – and to make a little bit of peace with that parting. I will see him at Samhain, now, and that will ease our parting somewhat.”

Salazar pauses, but Harry gets the sense that now isn’t the time to speak.

“Godric wants – wanted – me to move on,” his uncle continues after several seconds, the faint tick of the clock counting through each beat within the otherwise silent room. “He told me to allow myself to settle into what I have – and what I can find. That is not to say that it will be easy to do; it will take time and effort, and I know as much as he did that it will be – It will be hard.”

“But… you’re going to try?” Harry asks quietly, testing the idea out for size. “Even though…?”

“Even though what, Harry?” Salazar prompts, though he clearly doesn’t plan on waiting for an answer. “Even though I have a nephew here whom I love dearly? Even though I have plans, stability, _certainty_? Yes, I love Godric, and that will never change, but that love is clearly not the same love as I feel for you; they are vastly different feelings, and that is fine. That is _normal_. They are not comparable, do you understand? You mean as much to me as him, but I have surety that I can be here for you, where I can never guarantee that any attempts to return to Godric would be successful.”

Briefly, a smile flickers over Salazar’s face.

“I imagine he’d be rather disappointed in me if I tried and he found out.”

Harry isn’t sure why that makes him laugh, but it does, and Salazar doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

“I’m not leaving if I can help it, understand? And there is certainly nothing wrong with wanting me to stay.”

Nodding, Harry manages a shaky smile of his own. For some time, they lapse into comfortable silence, until Salazar clears his throat and pushes himself from his seat, crossing to the door to poke his head out into the hall beyond.

“Quirinus?” he calls, voice ringing through the manor with what must be magical assistance and drilling into Harry’s aching skull. “Could you bring two doses of Pain-Relieving Potion from my private collection to the study, please?”

That sounds like a brilliant idea, Harry has to admit, though it’s still strange to see Quirrell without a turban or an expression of murderous intent, never mind carrying two vials of potion to _aid_ Harry’s health.

“Thank you,” Salazar throws over his shoulder as he crosses to Harry to pass over one of the vials. “How is your research coming along?”

“I have a few leads,” Quirrell allows carefully, eyes flickering over to Harry for the briefest of moments before returning to Salazar’s face. “Perhaps a few avenues that might require more… _practical_ investigation.”

He sounds as quiet and understated as ever, lack of stutter aside, and Harry’s head still spins with it.

“We can discuss that tomorrow,” Salazar decides aloud, nodding his head in grateful dismissal and closing the door on Quirrell’s retreating back before downing his own potion and lifting his vial in silent prompt for Harry to do the same.

The headache retreats within seconds of the grim-tasting potion sliding its way down Harry’s throat, well worth the faintly unpleasant aftertaste – which itself is quickly washed away once Salazar has refilled his glass – as Harry’s ability to think clearly returns.

“Research?” he asks quietly, and Salazar nods, retaking his seat.

“Do you remember asking me about horcruxes?” his uncle begins carefully, mirroring Harry’s nod of confirmation. “Quirinus and I have been looking into them with regard to Riddle. Harry… A horcrux is…”

Salazar looks strangely sickened, which Harry doesn’t think bodes particularly well; Salazar has never been one to shy away from discussing any branches of magic.

“A horcrux is a _terrible_ piece of magic,” the man tells him, tone softening to little more than a whisper. “I will _not_ be going into the process required to create such an abomination but, essentially, it involves the splitting of one’s soul to achieve a bastardised form of immortality.”

“Bastardised?” Harry echoes uncertainly.

“Bastardised,” Salazar confirms, grim. “Beyond the Philosopher’s Stone – which may yet have a hidden cost that I have not been able to identify – it is impossible to achieve immortality without a severe price. Splitting one’s soul is horrific in itself, but separating those pieces physically will inevitably lead to madness. Beyond that, the particular immortality it offers is far from ideal, but… We won’t go into that.”

“This is how you think Riddle’s going to return, though?” Harry fills in.

“It is,” Salazar agrees, falling silent with an expectant stare.

“…The diary,” Harry supplies. “That’s… That’s actually Riddle’s horcrux, isn’t it?”

Salazar sighs, features twisting in a grimace that Harry cannot say he finds particularly promising.

“It _was_ ,” his uncle offers, which doesn’t sound as bad as Harry expected, until Salazar continues, “ _One_ of them.”

Closing his eyes, Harry bites back the desperate urge to groan in despair.

“To make a horcrux is to do some truly horrific things,” Salazar explains quietly, “But his diary never seemed… The wraith that possessed Quirinus never seemed whole, but I did not have an explanation for that before I encountered the diary. However, the diary did not by any means contain enough of Riddle’s soul to be the entirety of what was missing. I cannot say how many there are, though we have already found and destroyed one.”

Harry does his best to swallow his dread. This sounds horribly like it could turn into an endless hunt for these things, never knowing when their task is complete.

“So, we find as many as we can, destroy them, and… _hope_?” he fills in, relieved when Salazar shakes his head.

“As long as I can examine them all before they are destroyed, I am confident that I will be able to identify when every horcrux has been accounted for. However, I would like to clarify that _you_ will not be joining us in our search. You have more than enough to occupy your time; leave the horcruxes to Quirinus and myself.”

Reluctantly, Harry has to concede the point.

“But you’ll keep me updated?” he checks, only settling back into his chair when Salazar nods. “Oh – about the stuff I’m meant to be doing… We’re going to start tutoring the younger years.”

At once, Salazar’s eyes light up, approval gleaming within his stare as his chin lifts.

“Excellent work, Harry – and in under a week, too.”

Beaming at the praise, Harry continues.

“Two Weasley kids are looking at setting up a business as well, and I was wondering about us investing in that at some point – it looks like it could be good.”

Salazar takes a sip of his water, nodding but not interrupting, so Harry continues.

“So there’s that… And I’m going to be learning the Patronus Charm with Professor Lupin. I might ask him about Dad, but I haven’t decided yet.”

He hesitates there, trying to work out if there’s anything else that he should let Salazar know about, but all he can think of is a question.

“Master Snape said he was going to talk to you about something – has he…?”

Slowly, Salazar nods – first in acknowledgement, then in confirmation.

“It is something that I’d like to think on for a little while longer,” his uncle starts carefully. “I think it should be fine, but I don’t intend to rush into anything with this. I will let you know once I have fully considered the situation. As for the Weasley twins –” Harry doesn’t bother to ask how Salazar knows that Harry was talking about Fred and George specifically, “– I ask that you find out as much as you can about their business proposal then talk to me again before committing to anything, but it sounds like a good prospect for long-term financial supply.”

The approving smile offered sparks a grin on Harry’s face, stretching his now-dry cheeks as he nods eagerly. In return, Salazar’s expression softens all the more but, a beat later, a serious frown falls into place instead.

“I have put further thought into our need for funding, however,” Salazar continues. “We will need something more immediate – but don’t worry about that yourself, understand? I’ll be taking care of that. All you need to do is focus on what we have already discussed, and remember to look after yourself in the meantime.”

That seems to Harry to be a natural conclusion to the conversation, and Salazar certainly appears to agree, rising from his seat once more and crossing to the door to open it, turning back to Harry with obvious expectation. Harry joins him at once but cannot help opening his mouth for one last question before they leave the room.

“Did you and Master Snape have an argument?” he asks under his breath, Salazar stiffening at once.

For several seconds, the man hesitates, seeming to deliberate over what to tell Harry about whatever incident must have occurred to leave such a tangible stiffness between him and Master Snape.

“Severus said something that I did not appreciate,” Salazar tells him finally, each word deliberate and very clearly carefully chosen. “I overreacted. It will be resolved soon enough.”

Harry doesn’t need to be a genius to know that he won’t be getting anything else from Salazar on the matter tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? I forgot what happens in this chapter until I went to copy and paste it into the chapter box. As ever, I'd love to read all your thoughts in the comments!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math! Ciamar a tha sibh? I hope everyone is well, and that no one missed my announcement of changing times and got confused yesterday (assuming that you know the schedule in the first place, I suppose).
> 
> Chapter seven already... I was hoping to do a bit of writing today, and I actually may well get a chance still, but I am, at any rate, a little more caught up on work, so I'll hopefully have time to do some writing on weekday/Saturday evenings as well. On the subject of work... Calculus to Harry Potter film themes is really quite enjoyable. Fully recommend.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy!

“Take a deep breath,” Master Snape intones, and Harry follows the instruction wordlessly. “Feel the air as it fills your lungs – feel the flow, the cool freshness, each scent it imparts… Now let it out. Feel the rush past your lips, the shift in the air around you…And again, deep breath…”

Harry draws in as much oxygen as he can, focusing as much of his attention as possible on the singular sensation. The faint buzz of life in the castle above has long-since faded away, as has the coolness of the stool he sits on. Even Master Snape’s voice seems to be coming from somewhere far away, somehow beyond his grasp – and he knows better than to reach for it.

“Sink into yourself, now,” Master Snape continues, from that distant place. “Feel the air as it seeps into your bloodstream; feel your blood pulse around your body, driven by your heart – feel the muscle contract, feel it _push_ …”

Never before has Harry’s pulse felt so loud. There’s a strange sort of awe-inspiring strength to it, thrumming throughout his limbs as it pushes life into every little nook and cranny within his body. Lost in the overwhelming flood of awareness, he barely notices Master Snape’s voice fading away until it’s gone, and he has nothing to hold him back from the rush of his own consciousness as he tumbles into it. He feels uprooted, off-balance, as though he has lost his grip on whatever was keeping him in place; now, he has nothing to stop him from falling into his own mind, and the realisation brings fear creeping up on him. What does he do now? Master Snape didn’t warn him about this.

Something unfamiliar looms out of the darkness, black and sickening, and Harry recoils instantly from the monstrosity of it, pushing himself forcefully from its sheer _wrongness_. His stomach lurches with the horrible sensation that he has just thrown himself off the edge of _something_ in his haste to get away, panic rising as he falls and falls and –

– gasps in a choking lungful of cool air, laden with the scents of many potions, some of which he must have brewed himself. For a second, he almost feels relieved, but then the sensation of falling takes over once more, and he can only flail in horrified desperation until, with a loud clatter, he finds himself jolted to a halt. Dazed, he blinks up at the ceiling of Master Snape’s office, taking his time as he tries to gather his bearings; he’s on his back, his knees tucked into his chest, the frame of the chair the only thing between his aching, bruised spine and the cold floor. When he reaches out and flops his hand down, worn stone meets his fingertips.

Never has he been more happy to realise that he just tipped his chair too far back.

“Harry?” Master Snape asks, more amused than concerned. “Do you intend to get off my floor at some point?”

“Huh?”

Harry blinks again to clear his vision and shakes his head to do the same for his mind, then nods and extracts himself from his toppled seat with little grace.

“That was _terrifying_ ,” he breathes as he stands and rights the furniture. “Is it _meant_ to feel like that? I couldn’t hear you anymore, I didn’t know what to…”

Trailing off, he sucks in a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

“It’s different for everyone,” Master Snape tells him calmly. “What matters is that you now have some familiarity with your own mind, and with extracting yourself – though, of course, I will be here to assist you with that should you ever need help.”

“That –” Harry shakes his head and draws in more air. “ _That_ was my mind?”

Master Snape’s lips twitch.

“Yes, although I won’t pretend to know exactly what ‘that’ refers to,” the man informs him dryly, continuing before Harry can explain, “ _And_ nor will I ask. It’s your mind, Harry; try not to share it too openly.”

_Oh. Right._

Blushing, Harry shuts his mouth and nods, even as his thoughts return to the thing that actually led to him ‘extracting’ himself from his mind. Can that dark, terrifying mass of leeching evil really be a part of _him_?

He’s desperate to ask, because something about it just doesn’t seem right, but Master Snape is, of course, correct; it would not be good to get into the habit of telling other people about his mind, especially when he’s meant to be learning how to keep people out. All the same, it feels rather unsettling to think that there might be something so sinister within his own mind, and there’s a horrible inkling creeping up on him that it isn’t normal.

“That will be all for tonight,” Master Snape continues, oblivious to Harry’s internal worries. “You’ve made good progress. We’ll be brewing in class tomorrow, and I expect to see a written improvement of the textbook’s recipe with justifications on my desk by the end of the lesson, understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry confirms. “Should I follow the textbook for the actual brewing, or…?”

“Follow the textbook,” Master Snape tells him firmly. “You’ll be working in pairs.”

Nodding his understanding, Harry glances around to make sure that nothing fell out of his pockets when the chair toppled, then steps towards the door.

“Thanks, Sir,” he turns back to say, reaching behind himself for the handle.

“Of course, Harry,” Master Snape returns. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Sir.”

Harry trudges down the corridor towards the stairs, thoughts filled with sinister darkness and cloying evil. Maybe it’s normal to have that, but the more he thinks about it, the more he recoils instinctively from that idea. Is there something wrong with him, then? If that thing is part of his mind, does that mean that he is bad? What does it say that he has that kind of reaction to his own consciousness? _Is_ it part of his consciousness, in fact, or something else entirely?

Beyond all others, the question that disturbs him most slinks into his skull when he has already reached his dormitory and has started his bedtime routine.

Has it always been there? If it has, then maybe there has been something wrong with him since birth. If it hasn’t – he doesn’t really want to think about it.

If it hasn’t always been there, then it must have come into being at some point, and that means that there might be more to come, or it might be growing.

There’s no use dwelling on it too much, he tells himself firmly. He can do some research tomorrow – though he has a lot of homework to do, so on second thoughts, maybe Wednesday? Only he’ll be meeting up with the Weasley twins again with Hermione, Dudley, Neville and Draco, and he was planning on squeezing in some HIIT before breakfast, and of course he’ll be seeing Master Snape in the evening…

He’ll find time to look into that mass of wrongness at some point. It just might not be for a few days, which is even less reason to get himself worked up about it now. There are much better things to think about that he actually has control over, like that he and Dudley will be learning how to fight physically and he just _knows_ that Dudley will kick his butt, or how he needs to think of a plan to propose to Ron on Thursday when they meet to discuss that tutoring idea, or the complicated algebra that Professor Vector introduced today, or Professor Trelawney’s weird predictions – no, never mind. He isn’t meant to be paying any attention to that.

Professor Lupin will be starting to teach him and his friends how to cast a Patronus on Saturday, though, and he hasn’t yet got around to asking Master Snape to teach him how to duel…

Harry falls asleep with far too many things cluttering his skull, but all of it burns up under the intense heat of the dragon-fire that rips through his vision, until that, too, falls away to leave Sirius Black leering cruelly from the shadows – shadows which twist and flutter, rising away from the ground in the form of a dementor’s cloak as the world grows cold and frigid.

Harry almost misses the flames.

“Alright, little protégés!” Weasley Twin 1 announces, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “Today, we start your formal lessons.”

“For the next month,” his brother continues, “We’re going to teach the behind-the-scenes tricks of the trade – the ins and outs of the territory –”

“– how to avoid capture and evade interrogation –”

“– and the planning that goes into each and every prank.”

Slowly, Harry nods his understanding, eyeing the battered parchment in Twin 2’s hands with no small amount of curiosity. There must be something special about it, because there’s no way the older boy would be holding it so reverently otherwise.

“Can we please work quickly?” Draco demands loudly, his commanding display somewhat offset by his obvious shivering and the blue tint to his lips. “I don’t see why we couldn’t meet somewhere _warmer_ , anyway.”

“More likely to be seen in the castle,” Twin 2 explains easily.

“Or heard,” Twin 1 adds, nodding sagely. “It’s a fairly safe guarantee that there won’t be anyone else coming down here.”

_For good reason_ , Harry thinks, fighting the urge to sigh as he glances around at the rain-soaked trees and marsh-like ground. The weather has dried up since the torrential downpour of the morning, but the after-effects remain, and the wind has a cold bite to it even in their sheltered position on the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It isn’t the miserable conditions that have made him so uncomfortable, though; the blackened remains of the groundskeeper’s hut, as yet unreplaced over a year on from the incident that led to Hagrid’s dismissal, stand just twenty or so metres away, unrepentant in their disruption of the landscape. From where he stands, Harry can still see the exact spot where he threw himself and Master Snape to the ground, dragon-fire roaring over their heads so close that it burnt his back.

If he looks hard enough in the mirror, he can still see the faint scars. Dragon-fire might not be quite so permanent as its magical counterpart, but it still takes a terribly long time to heal.

“But anyway,” Twin 2 continues, drawing Harry from his quiet musings, “We thought we’d give you a quick introduction into what we do and how we do it.”

“Start with the basics and all,” Twin 1 offers. “For _that_ …”

“We need to show you the secret to our success,” Twin 2 declares, brandishing the parchment in his hand.

Clearly, Harry’s earlier suspicion was correct. Whatever information this parchment holds, it must be hugely important to the two older boys.

“ _That_?” Draco asks, dubious to the point of sneering, but the twins merely smirk.

Harry has spent enough time around Salazar, who certainly enjoys keeping information from people for as long as possible when sharing it isn’t urgent, to know what that means.

“More to it than meets the eye?” he guesses quietly, Dudley nodding his agreement.

Sharing a glance, the twins sigh and nod in unison.

“Exactly, young protégé,” Twin 2 confirms reluctantly, before a grin splits his face and the enthusiasm returns. “Watch _closely_ , now.”

“And _listen_ ,” Twin 1 emphasises.

Curious, Harry leans in to watch as Twin 2 lifts his wand, taps it lightly against the parchment, and intones, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

“A _password_ ,” Hermione whispers, awed, a second before ink starts to spread from where the wand still rests against the surface of the parchment, expanding at first like a spillage but then starting to take shape, forming familiar drawings and words alongside. “…The Marauder’s Map? Pleasant name.”

Shrugging, Twin 1 takes the newly revealed map and unfolds it carefully without addressing the remark.

“This little beauty shows the entirety of Hogwarts and its grounds,” he whispers, holding it out for them all to see.

“Are those…” Draco squints, “ _People_?”

“Yep!” Twin 2 grins, popping the ‘p’ with incredible vigour. “With this, we can see everyone in the castle anytime –”

“– and anywhere. What they’re doing –”

“– where they’re going –”

“– and who they’re with,” Twin 1 finishes proudly. “We are… _here_.”

Harry follows Twin 2 finger to the small huddle of footprints gathered on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, taking note of both his own name and those of his friends – and then relating the names ‘Fred Weasley’ and ‘George Weasley’ to match up with Twin 1 and Twin 2 respectively. Now, with a reliable confirmation of which one is truly which, he can hopefully find an identifying point to tell them apart with. There must be something in their appearances that distinguishes them.

…There’s nothing.

For the first time, teeth gritting with faint frustration, Harry entertains the idea that Fred and George might be using some kind of charm to keep themselves as identical as possible.

Honestly, Harry is rather more tired than he probably should be for a conversation like this. Planning of this kind – particularly with someone who isn’t already a close friend – really requires far more concentration than he has been putting into it, but yesterday was tiring, from his exercise in the morning through to his Occlumency practice, never mind the meeting with the Weasley twins in the middle. Now, he’s meeting with their younger brother on far too little sleep, having woken up twice in the night and spent a while trying to settle down again both times, and it’s all he can do to stifle a yawn.

“Sorry,” he manages as Ron pauses, though the word comes out mangled through the stretching of his jaw. “I’m just… just tired. Didn’t sleep too well last night.”

Slowly, Ron nods but doesn’t seem to stop eyeing Harry cautiously, almost as though he’s worried about Harry himself.

“Er…” the ginger hesitates. “We could do this another day?”

“No time for that,” Harry dismisses at once, waving his hand as if to knock the notion out of the air. “Let’s get this done, yeah? You were saying… First- and Second-Years? Sounds good.”

“I was thinking keep it a Sunday thing as well?” Ron adds, apparently emboldened by Harry’s approval. “Because then it’s kind of like they’re an extension of our study group – does that make sense? I mean, if you’d rather not, I totally –”

“That sounds great,” Harry interrupts, entirely sincere.

Fostering relationships between his year and younger years is one of his main aims, and here Ron is, handing it to him on a silver platter. Harry would hug him, if he thought they were close enough for it not to be weird.

“So…”

He trails off, frowning as he forces himself to focus.

“Maybe if we did it in the morning, though? That gives us enough time to have lunch and then take a break before our _own_ study time. Unless we fold them into ours – for the first hour or two, maybe.”

“Either sounds fine,” Ron offers, shrugging. “It might help them to see how we’re doing it, but having their own study periods might be better for them.”

Nodding slowly, Harry runs the comparison over in his head.

“What if we invited them along to the next few weeks, and then offered to come along to sessions for them in the morning?” he suggests. “So they get a chance to see what we’re doing first, and _then_ they can adapt that to however it suits them.”

Ron seems to like that, but a frown falls over his face nonetheless, his brow creasing as he glances down at the parchment that they’ve been making notes on. Harry waits patiently, considering as he does so how much easier it is to get along with the other boy these days. Now that they’re past the animosity of Ron insulting Harry’s heritage, there is a depth to the youngest Weasley boy shining through, which Harry more than appreciates.

“How do we get the information out?” Ron asks finally, chewing his lip as he scans over everything they’ve written down. “I mean, I get that once they’re _coming_ to our meetings, we can tell them there, but…”

“Word of mouth,” Harry shrugs. “We’ve got our entire year to spread the information through their own houses, mix that with people talking to their younger siblings and friends – like your sister – and we should cover most. Maybe if we start spreading the news next Monday, though? That way we can get our whole year involved in it and aware of what’s going on, then we’ve got a whole week to reach as many kids as possible.”

“We’ve got to get our year to agree as well,” Ron points out quietly, Harry blinking at him in surprise.

“Good point,” he agrees, offering a sheepishly grateful smile. “Forgot about that. Yeah, we’ll ask them if they’d be okay with that – see who wants to help as well – and go from there. That good?”

“That’s great,” Ron assures him, shoving his quill roughly into his bag along with his parchment; Harry bites back a wince on seeing such rough treatment of innocent stationary. “Yeah. Thanks, Harry.”

“No, thank _you_ ,” Harry returns at once, reaching out on a whim to shake the other boy’s hand. “Your idea, after all.”

Ron practically lights up at that, taking the offered hand enthusiastically to shake.

“I’ll see you around,” comes the satisfied promise, then Ron is gone, leaving Harry alone in the Library with some time to kill before dinner.

Maybe he should start looking for information on that weird thing in his head, as he has simply settled for staying as far away from it as he can for the time being, but he somehow doubts that he’d be at all capable of truly comprehending any book that he might try to read. This meeting has been blessedly short and simple, and the best course of action is probably to take full advantage of that by heading for a nap.

Unfortunately, Harry is no less tired by the time Saturday comes around. Wandering into Professor Lupin’s office on Dudley’s heels, he finds himself lifting an arm to hide another yawn and blinking back the moisture that wells in his eyes as a result as Professor Lupin ushers them further in and shuts the door gently behind them.

“How are you all doing?” the professor asks once the latch is closed, glancing around at them all. “Settled back into routine yet?”

Hermione nods for all of them, Neville shifting anxiously in the corner of Harry’s eye, and Professor Lupin smiles in soft, amused understanding.

“Nothing to be worried about,” he assures them. “The Patronus is a hard piece of magic, so don’t expect to make much progress for several weeks; there’s no pressure.”

Dudley rolls his shoulders, lifting his hands to crack his knuckles in his usual absent-minded manner and making Draco wince and glare at him in silence. Harry bites back a grin at the quick exchange, waiting until Draco has relaxed to crack his own knuckles in turn and trying not to laugh at the scandalised expression on the blond Slytherin’s face when Draco whips around to stare at him.

“Essentially, the Patronus Charm creates a shield of positive emotion,” Professor Lupin continues as though he didn’t even notice the pops. “To cast it, one is simply required to think of a _very_ happy memory. It might take some time to find the right one – you may find the one that works best to be one that you didn’t even think of at first. Of course, the spell takes practice to perfect, but losing yourself in the right memory should always produce a result, even if that turns out to be a faint wisp.”

_Right_. Harry draws in a deep breath, letting himself nod along as the words sink in. He needs a happy memory, so where’s the best place to start with that? Potion-making, he settles on, though he doesn’t think that it will really be right in the long run. It’s more about the satisfaction and low-key happiness than he suspects Professor Lupin means, but it’s a good place to start.

“The incantation is _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Professor Lupin pronounces carefully. “Can you all repeat that?”

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Harry echoes alongside his friends, working the words through to get a feel for them.

_Ec-spect-o Pa-tro-num. Expecto Patronum._

“Now, this is a spell that you can practice in your common rooms,” Professor Lupin tells them, “Or in that study group you’ve got going on. If you’d like to meet up every week to get check your progress and get some feedback, however, that would be fine.”

“Sounds good,” Harry volunteers at once, Dudley nodding his silent agreement.

“Very well,” Professor Lupin agrees, smiling at them all then clapping his hands with a nod. “Who wants to have a go first, then?”

Harry isn’t at all surprised when his friends turn to look at him, even Professor Lupin seeming to glance automatically over to him. Nodding in wordless concession, he closes his eyes and conjures up a memory of standing before a cauldron, Master Snape looking down at the finished product with a faint smile of approval, then lifts his wand before pausing.

“If the memory isn’t right, nothing will happen, will it?” he checks, cracking one eye open and relaxing at Professor Lupin’s nod. “…Alright. I’m not sure about this one, but…”

He closes his eyes once more and resettles himself, bringing up the pride that came with Master Snape’s praise, the delight at knowing that he made the potion to a high enough standard to deserve it, the pure joy of being good at something he finds pleasure in doing anyway.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he enunciates, still focusing on those emotions, and is nonetheless surprised when nothing comes. “…Yeah.”

“Not to worry,” Professor Lupin declares cheerfully. “Good to see you getting into the memory, even if it wasn’t the right one – that’s the real key to this. Really _feel_ the emotions of it. Alright, who’s going next?”

Despite having expected the result beforehand, there’s a part of Harry that still feels frustrated at not having produced anything. Luckily, that small grumbling voice is quietened easily enough as he watches each of his friends attempt and fail as completely as he did. Although he doesn’t enjoy seeing their lack of success, it’s more than a little reassuring to see that Professor Lupin wasn’t exaggerating when he said it might take them weeks to grasp the spell.

If nothing else, he’s pretty sure that either Salazar or Master Snape told him that Occlumency will help with the Patronus Charm, so hopefully he will make good progress if he keeps practising and working through various memories to find the one right for him.

It’s with that optimistic thought in mind that he steps up for a second attempt, this time plucking out a flying memory – soaring through the air, the wind rippling through his hair as he gives into the freedom and weightlessness of it, all his focus on the broom between his legs and the rush of diving…

“ _Expecto Patronum_.”

Still nothing, which is a little disappointing but much easier to stomach than the first time. Nodding, Harry steps back to give Dudley the floor again, stifling another yawn as he does so. Perhaps it will be easier to cast when he feels awake enough to focus on the memories that he’s trying to use, and the thought might even be a positive one if not for the fact that he doesn’t know when he’ll get a chance to catch up on sleep.

The simple fact of the matter is that he’s struggling to get through the night without jolting awake at least once, and he has too much to do to fit enough naps in if he wants to use them to make up for what he’s otherwise lacking. Maybe he should start working on homework at night, whenever he needs to get his mind off a nightmare.

At the very least, the idea’s worth a shot.

Dropping his head to one side and then the other to crack his neck, he presses his lips together in a vain attempt to try and hold back a third yawn, closing his eyes as they blur with desire for sleep. He has no room for tiredness this morning; he’s going straight from this session with Professor Lupin to flying with Cho, although the house Quidditch team will not be confirmed for a few weeks yet.

Maybe he can settle down for a nap this afternoon. Yes, a nap this afternoon sounds _perfect_.

“How are you tired already?” is the first thing Cho asks when Harry wanders across the pitch to meet her, stifling a yawn with the hand that isn’t holding his broom.

“Don’t know,” Harry dismisses at once, unwilling to list out every single thing that he needs to get done as soon as possible and how it all fills his waking hours – never mind how disrupted his nights have been. “Just been a busy summer, I guess.”

To his surprise, she nods in immediate sympathy and understanding, as though what he has said is to be expected.

“How _is_ the lordship going?”

_Oh, right._

Shrugging, he starts his usual pre-flight once-over of his broom, checking that everything is in place and not about to give him problems with any kind of acceleration.

“Alright, actually,” he allows, glancing back up to meet Cho’s eyes. “There’s a lot to put into practice that I’ve only ever learnt as theory, and the Wizengamot’s all kinds of intimidating, but it feels like I’m getting close to _doing things_ , if you know what I mean?”

Apparently, she does not, because she merely cocks her head in silent expectation that he will elaborate.

“I mean…” he flounders briefly for words to explain himself. “Obviously, I’m not really doing much yet, but it feels like I’m on the road to making a difference in things. It feels like the right way for me to be going about it all.”

Fortunately, she nods her comprehension at that, swinging a leg over her broom as she offers him a small, gentle smile. He mirrors her actions, pushing off with gleeful vigour before guiding his broom back down to hover just above the ground, settling in at her side to skim the grass around the perimeter of the pitch in a lazy circuit.

“You’re clearly well-suited to leading from the front,” she tells him. “I guess the lordship is a good way to do that.”

Deciding that he doesn’t really want to keep talking about everything that’s happening in his life with her – she’s separate from his problems, and he’d like to keep both her and Quidditch as an escape for as long as possible – Harry settles for lifting a shoulder in response as they turn the first corner and searches for a deflection.

“How was your summer?” he asks, leaning over to nudge her lightly. “I heard you and Cedric Diggory…?”

Instantly, Cho blushes, and it’s all Harry can do to bite back a grin at the reaction.

“How did you hear about that?” she demands, already turning her face away in a clear attempt to hide her embarrassment; Harry picks up his pace, swinging around in front of her to meet her eyes once more.

“I don’t even know where I heard it first,” he admits, drifting back to her other side as she flattens a faint smile from her lips. “Several of my classmates are _heartbroken_. You’ve stolen their one true love.”

“Stop it!” she scolds, cheeks darkening further as she lifts a hand to shove him.

Laughing, Harry falls with the movement to roll around his broom and back up to the top, pleased to see that she’s struggling to bite back a grin despite her words. Settling himself just out of her reach, he lifts an expectant eyebrow.

“Well? How’d it happen?”

“He volunteered to help some of us catch up at the end of last year,” she explains reluctantly, sighing. “And over the summer, too. We got talking about Quidditch, and other things, and we spent some time flying together…”

Trailing off, she ducks her head and shrugs.

“He’s really nice,” she mumbles, then clears her throat and lifts her head once more, fixing her gaze on the path ahead.

“That’s so cute,” Harry tells her at once, only half-teasing. “When’s Roger going to talk to him?”

At once, she falters.

“He’s not,” she returns, and Harry can clearly see her knuckles pale around the handle of her broom. “Is he? He’d better not – I told Cedric not to worry about any of that. Harry, I swear to Merlin, if Roger _dares_ …”

In all honesty, Harry has no idea whether the thought has even crossed their Captain’s mind or not, though he can’t say he’d be surprised. Certainly, there’s a growing part of him that desperately wants to see Roger – insanely confident on and around the pitch and a master tactician, but one of the most awkward people Harry has ever met otherwise – attempt to give Cedric Diggory a talking to.

“Can you imagine if he did, though?” Harry presses, watching as Cho seems to consider the actual idea of it for the first time. “It’d be _fantastic_. Is Cedric taller than Roger? I think he is.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad,” Cho relents, rolling her eyes.

“Not so bad? We could get that Creevey kid in Gryffindor to capture it all in photographs! Make a little comic strip of it in the common room…”

“You’re ridiculous,” Cho tells him, but she’s grinning as she says it. “Come on, stop teasing poor Roger when he’s not here to defend himself. I set a bag of practice snitches down around here, but I’ve forgotten where…”

“Oh, the irony,” Harry sighs happily as they start their search for the snitches in order to release them and search for them all again.

By the time they finish their practice, they’re both too out of breath to laugh but beaming nonetheless, throwing light-hearted barbs back and forth as they traipse their way to the changing rooms. Despite his physical exhaustion, there’s a spring in Harry’s step as he drops his bag and broom off on a bench and heads for the showers, both from the thrill of flying and the sheer pleasure of working hard in good company.

That doesn’t change the fact that he _definitely_ needs a nap, though.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math! Ciamar a tha sibh?
> 
> So... England are Six Nations Champions, we're going back into lockdown because our government is... Well, 'incompetent' probably gives them the benefit of the doubt. Am I staying at uni? Are universities even staying open? Would I be *allowed* to go home for the whole of this lockdown if I don't have face-to-face tutorials (and if I wanted to)? Who knows?
> 
> At any rate, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Often, Harry catches glimpses of the gradual expansion of his influence amongst his year-mates in subtle ways. Someone will look automatically to him as if for approval or to check his reaction to something before deciding what they think. When he offers his opinion in a conversation, his peers seem to sit up that little bit more to take note. If someone has an idea of their own, like Ron, they’ll often come to him to voice it, and decisions that might affect the whole year simply are not made without his input.

Sometimes, however, he is hit in the face with an explicit reminder of the leadership role he has fallen into – like now, watching every head swivel in his direction within ten seconds of him standing and starting to make his way to the front of the room. He hasn’t even called for their attention yet, but they’re all staring right at him, wide-eyed and waiting.

It’s… heartening to see that they recognise him so easily as an authority figure among them, but daunting all the same – particularly when he catches his closest friends following suit. At least with Dudley, it seems more that his cousin is making a deliberate point of deferring to him when there are others around, likely at the behest of Salazar, but that does not stop Harry from wishing that he could ask his cousin to just _stop_ , because sometimes it seems as though everyone around him is forgetting that he’s no different from the rest of them.

He’s human too. He requires food and drink like the rest of them, and sleep for certain, and he feels like the rest of them as well. He has his stressors and his worries.

That’s beside the point, though.

“Before I head off to the Wizengamot,” he starts carefully, looking out over all of them as he speaks and trying to meet as many eyes as possible not just as a quick glance but for a meaningful length of time, “I wanted to talk to you all about this idea Ron came to me about.”

Mention of Wizengamot, reminding them all that he really does have authority beyond anyone else in the room – check. Quick mention of Ron coming to him with the idea, reinforcing that he is someone to be approached with their thoughts and questions – check.

“We’ve talked it over since, refined it a bit –” because whatever they might be considering, his advice is almost certainly worthwhile, “– and we want to see what your thoughts are and who’s interested in taking part. Essentially, we want to start providing support to the younger years. We’d be looking at inviting them all along to a couple of these sessions, to see what we’re all doing for each other and how well it works, and then setting them up with their own sessions, which we could support and offer tutoring in.”

Reminder that unity under an idea that he first put forward to them has worked well for everyone here – check. He spent most of his breakfast with Master Snape this morning discussing how best to use the presentation of this idea to further his standing, with some input from Salazar via their mirrors. Of course, the action in itself goes a long way, but there are several ways to optimise it beyond its natural weight.

“We’d be looking at spreading the word over this coming week – tell any younger siblings, tell the younger students in your house, and so on – so they could come next week, and maybe for the week or two after that. Does anyone have any thoughts they want to add? Objections, suggestions…?”

Looking over the faces before him, he sees only considering frowns and faint nods of approval.

“I think it sounds like an excellent idea,” Ernie Macmillan offers. “Assisting the younger students could also improve our foundational knowledge in subjects.”

Putting aside the slightly pompous tone, Harry dips his chin in silent agreement.

“Just one thing!” Millicent Bulstrode calls from the back, and he turns in her direction. “Can we put it off one week? Me and Vince wanted to go through some Potions content from Second Year, and I don’t want to do that around them.”

Quickly, Harry glances around the rest of the room.

“Any problems with that?” he checks, nodding when nothing comes up. “We’ll do that, then. Anything else…?”

The room is quiet.

“Alright,” he declares, setting his thoughts in order for a quick conclusion. “I’ve got to go, but… Spread the word for the next two weeks – it’s the 28th we’re going for. Since we’ve got the time, we’ll do a sign up for people who want to be actively involved next week, which gives everyone time to think it through, or come to me or Ron with more questions about it. For now, I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

That said, he heads to his previous seat to gather his belongings then turns for the door. Second Wizengamot session, here he comes.

The next week passes in something of a blur. Harry goes to his lessons, completes his homework to the best of his ability, maintains his range of exercise, meets up with Dudley to go through the foundations of hand-to-hand combat that Salazar has explained to them via mirror, works on Occlumency through both non-magical meditation and magical introspection, spreads the news about the tutoring to the lower years and answers his peers’ questions about it, studies issues that the Wizengamot has been examining lately, writes down off-hand references to obscure or interesting topics made by his teachers in a rapidly-growing list of subjects to be investigated further, and tries to sleep enough to feel like a semi-functional human being.

In his honest opinion, he does reasonably well at all but one of his tasks.

Still, it’s undeniably a struggle to see how he could possibly manage to uphold this activity level for the rest of the year, never mind increase it, because he hasn’t found the time to practice the Patronus at all by the time he arrives at Professor Lupin’s office with his friends on Saturday. It hasn’t once occurred to him to try thinking up better memories beforehand, but at least he doesn’t seem to be having any more trouble than his friends.

“How are you sleeping?” Master Snape asks on Sunday morning after the third stifled yawn, frowning when Harry merely shrugs and pulls a face. “Is there something in particular which is causing you problems?”

“Nightmares?” Harry offers reluctantly. “But it’s also just… hard to get to sleep in the first place. There are so many thoughts that just go round and round in my head – about Sirius Black, You-Know-Who…”

He trails off, ducking his head to muffle yet another yawn, and hears Master Snape sigh.

“Harry, I’m certain your uncle would agree with me when I say that as much as we want you to be prepared for what is to come, we also want you to be happy and healthy. I know it is not as simple as asking you to turn off your worrying, but please try to leave as much of that as possible to us.”

Awkwardly, Harry nods, though he doesn’t see how he can _not_ worry about everything going on around him, and it doesn’t seem overly wise either. Surely, it’s better to already have thought through all the problems that he may face in the future?

“On a more practical note,” Master Snape continues, “I can offer you Dreamless Sleep potion for the next few weeks, until your Occlumency is of a high enough standard to assist in ordering your thoughts and shield your mind from nightmares.”

_Being able to occlude properly_ , Harry reflects, _sounds more appealing with each passing day._

Unfortunately, Master Snape is far from the only person to feel that Harry’s sleep schedule needs something done about it; Harry is in the Library with his friends only two days later when Roger approaches to ask awkwardly if they can talk, eyeing Harry’s friends all the while as though Neville might lunge from his seat and attack him at any moment or Hermione might sprout fangs and go for his neck.

“…Sure?” Harry agrees carefully, standing to follow Roger out into the corridor beyond. “What’s the matter?”

Before the question is even fully-formed, awkward-teenager-Roger is gone and Quidditch-Captain-Roger stands in his place, hands on hips and a frown fixed firmly on his face.

“Cho is concerned about your sleeping,” the older boy announces, blunt and to the point. “I’m inclined to agree with her – and I think you’re overworking.”

Blinking, Harry opens his mouth to say something, then closes it when he realises that he isn’t sure what kind of response he should really be giving to that. Yes, he knows that he has had an awful lot going on in just these past two weeks or so, but is it really _so_ obvious that Roger has noticed?

“Maybe it’s not my place,” Roger adds, shrugging. “The season hasn’t started yet, I know, but all the same… I think someone has to say it. I don’t know if it’s Sirius Black, your new lordship, just wanting to do well at your new subjects, the apprenticeship – congratulations on that, by the way. Brilliant achievement.”

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, unsure what else to say when _Roger_ is in the middle of lecturing him about his health.

He’s fairly sure that he saw Roger pull multiple all-nighters during his OWLs last year, which is definitely the opposite of advisable.

“Anyway, if there’s anything you want to talk about, I’m always here, or I’m sure any of your friends would be happy to listen, or Professor Snape or Professor Flitwick…” Roger seems to grow increasingly uncomfortable with each second of talking about opening up, eventually trailing off with a cough. “Whatever the case, just try to take care of yourself, alright? Last thing we need is you too exhausted to play, you hear me?”

Blank, Harry nods and, before he can begin to work out why Roger seems to think it’s a certainty that Harry will be playing at all, his Captain is gone.

“Everything alright, Haz?” Dudley asks quietly from the Library entrance, Harry jumping as he turns to face his cousin.

“Yeah,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Yeah, just…”

He doesn’t have anything to say to finish off that sentence, but Dudley merely nods in understanding, taking a moment to look Harry up and down before opening his mouth again.

“Salazar _did_ tell you to look after yourself and relax, didn’t he?”

What is it with everyone chasing after Harry’s health?

“Yes,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “It’s just a bit hard to relax when there’s an escaped murderer after me and You-Know-Who might return any day.”

Dudley’s lips press tightly together for a second, his brow creasing, then Harry finds himself enveloped in a tight hug.

“I’m here for you,” his cousin tells him quietly. “So are Draco, Hermione, and Neville, alright? You need to take some time to be _you_ , mate.”

Wryly amused, Harry draws back to meet Dudley’s eyes.

“I swear you sound more like Salazar every day,” he observes, managing an actual smile when Dudley huffs.

“Well, I spent a lot of time with him while you were avoiding him,” comes the easy dismissal; Harry tries not to wince at the reminder of his discomfort with Salazar in the last week of the holiday, but with it comes another thought.

“What _did_ you two talk about after I left his office that time?” he asks, unsure what to make of the way Dudley stiffens.

“Uh…” his cousin hesitates, shoulders lifting in an awkward shrug. “It’s – I’ll tell you some other time, alright? I’m still… I’m working things out.”

Bemused but trying to hide it, lest he inadvertently put Dudley under pressure, Harry settles for a wordless nod. For a long moment, silence falls between them, Dudley looking distinctly uncomfortable and Harry unsure of what else to do or say, then the taller boy shakes his head and pats Harry’s shoulder.

“Come on. The others will be missing us.”

It is on Wednesday that Harry finally remembers to ask Master Snape about duelling. As soon as the question slips past his lips, while he is still slumped in his chair after a long night of building a mental shield for himself inch by painstaking inch, Master Snape raises an eyebrow in his direction, apparently surprised.

“‘Magical duelling’?” the Potions Master echoes, lips pressing faintly together. “Am I to assume that your uncle is intending to teach you some non-magical equivalent?”

One day, Harry will have to ask exactly how the man picks things from his speech with such apparent confidence.

“Hand-to-hand combat,” he confirms instead of giving voice to his question, “And I think we’re going onto physical weapons at some point.”

Master Snape nods, still eyeing Harry in careful consideration.

“And is there a reason why your uncle cannot teach you magical duelling as well?”

‘ _Is there a reason why you won’t just answer the question?_ ’ Harry does not ask, because he doubts his master would appreciate the slightly snarky comment in the slightest. He has been in the mood for sarcasm all day, which he thinks comes down to the fact that the benefits of being able to sleep through the night again are finally kicking in to help his energy levels.

“He doesn’t think he’d see me enough for it,” he explains aloud. “And he thinks you’re better.”

“I can see why that might be,” Master Snape allows, nodding, and Harry cannot hold back his question this time.

“Why?”

At least this one is a reasonable inquiry.

“Duelling requires a great degree of finesse,” Master Snape begins, fingers lifting to stroke along his jaw as he watches Harry closely, “Teaching another to duel, even more so. While your uncle is incredibly powerful and immensely talented, I do not imagine that his… _disorder_ makes it easy for him to reach the level of subtlety required to truly master duelling, never mind to teach the art.”

Unsure what there could possibly be to say to that, Harry opts for a nod. That explanation certainly makes sense, he supposes, and Salazar himself has mentioned the trouble that he sometimes has with channelling his magic precisely before. All the same, it’s hard for Harry to imagine his formidable uncle ever _not_ being able to master something if he put his mind to it.

“Beyond that, he does not strike me as a man with much fondness for fighting,” Master Snape adds thoughtfully, which is definitely a surprise.

“Really?” Harry cannot help but blurt out, squinting at his master.

“He can fight when he has to, certainly,” Master Snape allows, with little more than a quirk of one eyebrow to show for his acknowledgement of Harry’s interruption, “But I do not imagine that he enjoys it in the slightest.”

This all seems to Harry to be a rather long-winded way of answering a request to teach Harry how to duel, interesting and educational though it might have been. Apparently, Master Snape finds his expression as easy to read as ever.

“I’ll teach you duelling after the Winter Break,” comes the slightly amused declaration. “You’re making more than satisfactory progress in your Occlumency, but it will certainly remain the primary focus of our time together until Yule – and duelling will remain behind potion-making in our list of priorities as well.”

Triumphant, Harry nods his easy agreement and does his best not to fidget too excitedly in his chair.

“Now,” Master Snape continues, fixing him with a pointed stare, “Tell me about the progress you’ve made with your shield today.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Harry straightens his back, rolls his shoulders, and prepares to speak. This is only his second session of building his shield, having spent the last two weeks merely familiarising himself with his mind, and he knows that the process is a slow one, but that does not stop him from feeling frustrated with how little he has to show for his work and worrying that he might not have advanced sufficiently whenever Master Snape prompts him for a report.

“I’m just starting to fill in the frame,” he offers carefully, relaxing when Master Snape nods in approval. “I’m happy with the strength of the frame so far…”

But, as Master Snape has told him at least five times already, he cannot know for certain if it will be suitable until he has tested the full shield. Luckily, his master does not feel the need to make the point again.

“I’m sticking mostly to visual for now, but I’m incorporating some white noise into it, and I think I’m going to go to my other senses towards the end, particularly smell.”

“Is that what feels right to you?” Master Snape asks him, an eyebrow lifting, and Harry nods. “Good. That should provide you with the strongest result, then. Remember not to tell me the specifics of your shield, if you can avoid it.”

Harry bites back an ecstatic beam at the explicit praise, but the expression is quickly tempered by the reminder that he should not be talking about his shield, which leads his mind straight back to the strange blob of evilness within itself. He wants desperately to ask Master Snape about it, because the idea that it might be a part of him somehow does not sit well, but he _can’t discuss his own mindscape with others_.

He needs to get around to researching it.

“As I said a moment ago, you’re making good progress with your Occlumency,” Master Snape concludes. “My opinion remains unchanged. As usual, straight back to Ravenclaw Tower, please.”

Recognising the dismissal at once, Harry stands and offers a small smile as he tries to work out whether he has time to finally get to the Library tomorrow. He probably does; even a few nights of sleeping better has vastly improved his ability to work through homework quickly and efficiently, and he is starting to find himself with patches of free-time here and there, though he doubts the miracle will last for long.

“Night, Sir,” he throws over his shoulder as he reaches for the door.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Master Snape returns.

“You know last year, when you dragged me off to look for something without telling me what, and everything went much better when I could actually _help_?”

Despite Hermione’s hushed tone, her words are sharply pointed, her expression conveying the full depth of her frustration with Harry’s secretive behaviour as she folds her arms across her chest to stare at Harry until he replies. Harry himself tries to avoid her gaze for as long as he can, occupying himself with scanning along the Library’s shelves for books on even a remotely related subject to the one he’s interested in, but her presence is all too noticeable in his periphery, and she simply is not the kind of person whom Harry would ever consider ignorable for any extended period of time.

Sighing, he turns to meet her unimpressed stare and struggles for an explanation for his secrecy.

“It’s… not a topic I think I’m meant to talk about,” he tells her, shrugging as her eyes narrow.

“So why am I here, then?” she pushes. “You want me here for a reason, and I’ll probably find out what kind of subject you’re looking for when you actually _find_ a book you want, so you might as well tell me so I can help you search. Or should I just go, because you’re wasting valuable time I could be spending on homework?”

Harry opens his mouth to argue that there is no way that she could _possibly_ need so much time to do her homework that this brief excursion before dinner could be of any consequence, but closes it when he remembers that she has been saddled with an inexplicably appalling amount of homework so far this term.

“Should I go?” Hermione repeats, taking a step towards the exit.

“No! No, please don’t… go,” Harry finishes lamely, well aware that her points have been very much valid. “I’m looking for books on the Mind Arts, alright? Because there’s something in my mindscape that I want to understand, but I’m not really meant to actually tell anyone _about_ my mindscape, so I thought I’d just see if anyone’s written about it. Okay?”

Hermione’s eyes flash with triumph.

“Okay,” she agrees at once. “Well, we probably _are_ in the right section for it…”

Harry bites back a huff, because he knows that already; he hasn’t been examining these shelves for the past five minutes for nothing.

“I’ll start that end, and we’ll meet in the middle?” Hermione suggests, pointing, and Harry has nothing better to do than nod, so with that settled, they start their search in earnest.

In the end, to Harry’s utter disappointment, they head down to the Great Hall for dinner with a grand total of one book found between them and, in flicking through it while his housemates natter around him, it does not take long for Harry to realise that it holds nothing even vaguely useful. It does offer some other interesting discussions about aspects of minds that Harry is tempted to come back to read up on at the weekend, while he still has the book out on loan, but nowhere in it is there any mention of dark, distinctly evil masses of wrongness.

The discovery does absolutely nothing to soothe his feelings of discomfort on the matter. Does this mean that this thing is unique to him – that there is something wrong with _him_? Or is it simply that no one wants to discuss this, or it’s a taboo topic of some sort that he therefore shouldn’t bring up?

Neither option sits well with him at all.

“Alright, Harry?” Terry asks curiously, peering over at the book. “Mind Arts, huh? You thinking of learning Occlumency or something?”

Closing the book with a sigh and setting it aside, Harry turns to his closest Ravenclaw friend.

“Master Snape’s already teaching me,” he admits. “I just wanted to do a bit of extra reading, is all.”

_Into why my mindscape has this horrible area of terrifying corruption_ , he does not say.

“Fair enough,” Terry declares. “Is it interesting?”

At once, Harry nods, because there is nothing the Mind Arts can be described as if not _interesting_ – or fascinating, or intriguing, or…

“Sorry,” Oliver cuts in quietly, glancing between the two of them before seemingly deciding to settle on Harry, his brow creased as he fiddles absent-mindedly with his tight, dark curls. “What’s… whatever you said? Mind Arts? Occ – whatever?”

“Occlumency,” Terry fills in helpfully, then turns with clear expectation that Harry provide the actual explanation.

Taking the cue without so much as a sigh, Harry launches into the explanation. As he speaks, he focuses as much on the trusting focus of his enrapt audience as he does the words spilling from his mouth, aware that this is really just another step in establishing himself as their leader – the one they should come to for guidance. That’s what he needs to be. For most of them, that’s probably going to evolve into _all_ he can be.

He can’t afford to be their friend, their peer; he has to be more, and to appear invincible, and to achieve that, he can’t let himself seem to be on their level – approachable, yes, but equal, no. Salazar has skirted around explaining that outright, but the implication has been there since well before the summer, even. Harry just didn’t understand why his uncle’s quiet sympathy always came along with it.

He does now, of course. They are working to purposefully place him on a pedestal, which he cannot allow himself to be toppled from, and life up there is going to be lonely. Slowly but surely, he is going to distance himself from all but the closest of his friends – and maybe even them, too.

He dreads the day that Dudley does not feel comfortable to tease him about his mistakes – or does not even see them in the first place. The thought that Hermione might one day look at him and see someone wiser than herself is terrifying.

All the same, he explains quietly and calmly, letting his measured words carry across the table to the ears of not just his year-mates but others in his House as well, making silent note of who turns to listen or even spares him a second glance. Standing on the pedestal might be lonely and exhausting but, unlike in rugby as a child, he can’t lead everyone by standing with them on the ground.

There is no way, Harry decides as he stares around the room at the First- and Second-Years grouped in tight clumps among his own year-mates, that he was ever that small himself. He does not care that, in actuality. he is _still_ the same height as more of the Second-Years than he’d like to admit; they are all still too small – or at least too young.

Regardless, they are here, hovering uncertainly with their friends and staring about with wide eyes, and it has, as ever, fallen to Harry ease their nerves and introduce them to the situation.

“Good afternoon,” he starts, with that exact goal in mind, and waits while his peers turn his direction, the younger students scrambling to do the same. “It’s good to see you all.”

He spent some time talking to Salazar yesterday evening about the best way to do this, and he knows that, to a degree, he will have to play it by ear and do his best to read his audience in the moment, but at least the introduction can stay the same no matter what.

“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Lord Harry Potter,” he continues, offering a shallow bow to the room at large. “All of the Third-Years you see around you are my year-mates, and my friends. To cut to the point, that’s a large part of what this whole thing is about: working together and building up our relationships so that we can all support each other. Here, that’s mostly in terms of academics, because this is also a study group at heart, but we do also have catch-ups, and of course we see each other at other times.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Susan Bones nodding.

“This year, Ron over there –” he waves a hand in Ron’s direction, “– came up with the idea that we could also offer support to you lot if you want it. Tutoring in magical and non-magical subjects, study advice, education on culture – you name it, someone here can probably help you with it, but we’d also like to help you with turning to people in your own years as well, just as we do. Not only does it make everything a lot less complicated once you get rid of the rivalries and contention points you don’t need, but it’s also a _great_ way of making the older years jealous.”

Flashing a grin, he tries not to relax visibly when several of their young newcomers laugh softly. No one looks put-off, yet, though he can see several faces that don’t appear so keen. Unfortunately, he can’t afford to cater too much to individuals yet, so there’s not much he can do about them at the moment.

“With that said, what we’d like to do is give you all an opportunity to stick around for this week and the next, just to see the kind of thing we’re doing and of course get to know us, then we could help you set up your own meetings if you wanted them, and maybe a few of us could come along ourselves to help out. For now… Dean, have you got the textbooks…?”

Dean holds one of them up with a grin.

“Yep!”

“Alright, so Dean’s parents have sent him some muggle Maths textbooks for anyone doing Arithmancy, and Terry, Lavender and Parvati are doing a quick recap of Astronomy so far – unless anyone needs any Potions work, I was going to join in with them…?”

“Can you run through Girding Potion?” Neville asks quietly. “Just ten minutes or so?”

As the afternoon rumbles on, Harry does his best to keep track of the younger students, engaging them in the activities as much as possible and encouraging his year-mates to do the same whenever he has a moment free. All the while, he keeps half an eye on the time and, once he has finished explaining the Girding Potion to Neville, does his best to listen intently to Terry, Lavender and Parvati, though there are moments when he finds that he has to drag himself back to the conversation when he realises that he has tuned them out entirely.

Really, he can’t help but feel a little distracted, because not all the younger students seem as enthused by their set-up as he hoped. He does his best to deal with as many of the frowns as he can, but he is still dissatisfied by the time he makes his farewells and heads back to Ravenclaw Tower to prepare for the evening, a sour taste lingering in his mouth.

What did he do wrong? There must have been something he could have done better, something that would have had them all sold, and it frustrates him to no end not to know what it was. If Salazar had been there, his uncle would have known where the fault lay. If Salazar had been there, everything would have worked out in the first place.

Harry isn’t Salazar, though, and perhaps it stands to reason that he can’t live up to Salazar’s expectations.

“Your uncle is not omnipotent, Harry,” Master Snape tells him calmly when he voices those thoughts on the walk through the grounds, the faint set of his jaw the only sign he offers that the dementor’s chill is getting to him as much as it is Harry. “Talk to him about this afternoon on the way to the Ministry.”

Harry isn’t sure he wants to but, when it’s just him and Salazar standing outside the gates with that silver lion circling them with lazy steps, he brings it up all the same, hurrying through a brief summary of the afternoon and biting out an explanation of his frustrations. Beyond reaching out to nudge Harry into walking away from the gates and the patrolling dementors during a pause for breath, Salazar offers no reaction to the words whatsoever as Harry speaks, merely listening in silence and watching the gradually encroaching shadows around them all the while. As soon as Harry has finished, however, he draws in a deep breath.

“Harry, I’d like you to listen closely,” he begins, firm and almost forceful. “You cannot win every battle you fight, and you will _never_ succeed in pleasing everyone, understand?”

Harry presses his lips together, a little frustrated with the response, but Salazar doesn’t seem done, so he waits while his uncle’s eyes flicker over the path ahead of them.

“From what you’ve told me, you’ve done well,” Salazar continues after a moment. “Yes, the perfect outcome would have been to have everyone in agreement with you, but perfect outcomes are… improbable at best. There will be students from dark families who resent the fact that non-magical education plays a role in these sessions. There will be students from light families who do not like that you uphold magical culture. There will be those who cling to House rivalry, and those who simply do not see the benefit of these sessions.

“Can you honestly tell me that everyone in your year simply fell into line with everything you wanted instantly – or that they even do so now? Would _you_ go along with the words of an older student if it went against everything you had grown up believing?”

“Well, no,” Harry allows, “But –”

“But it’s frustrating,” Salazar fills in, stopping and turning to meet Harry’s eyes. “I understand. You want everything to run smoothly, and why wouldn’t you? You have enough on your plate without having to fight for every little thing – but that’s why I ask you not to worry too much when everything does not immediately go our way. You have far too much to stress you out already.”

Salazar pauses, brow creasing faintly as his gaze flits over Harry’s face.

“You’re thirteen,” he adds, softer now. “Harry, you’re _thirteen_. You don’t need to be perfect – you will never need to be perfect, because that is not what it is to be human. Sometimes people forget that – sometimes _I_ forget that – but it only ever leads to trouble. Striving to have no flaws will only ever lead to pain.”

Gently, Salazar’s hand settles on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing lightly as the man offers a faint smile.

“The job I’ve set out ahead of you is a big one, and it requires a lot of responsibility and dedication. I wish I could do more to take it from you, because you deserve… _so_ much more than this, but since I cannot, I’ll settle for supporting you in any way I can. If that includes reminding you that you’re a child and that you don’t need to have all the answers or throw your entire life into this, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Briefly, Harry hesitates, then nods his understanding. It must show that he’s not _entirely_ convinced, however, because Salazar merely sighs.

“Remind me to explain the mindset of process over outcome later – it seems set to revolutionise the muggle world in the next few years. I think you’ll find it rather interesting.”

That said, Salazar shifts his hand to Harry’s arm, gripping more firmly, and Harry takes the warning for what it is, bracing for the squeeze – more like crushing pressure – of apparition.

With a step and a crack, the pair disappear altogether from the Scottish Highlands, leaving behind only an unnaturally enhanced chill, the faint rustle of the wind, and a large, black hound, mostly obscured by the rocks and shrubbery of the mountainside and the creeping darkness of early autumn evening, only its glowing golden eyes visible as they fix on the spot that has just been vacated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anybody doing/has done a Maths degree and is good at probability? Because I could do with some assistance.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math, ciamar a tha sibh?
> 
> If anyone from the US is reading this, I hope you've had a *very* good weekend. And congratulations.
> 
> If anyone who likes musicals is reading this and has been following 'The Shows Must Go On' on YouTube, I have some serious thoughts about the musical of The Wind in the Willows. I explained my alternative perspective of the story to my sister and she said she'd actually read that fic, so... Nah, I don't really have time to write it and, if I did, I'd be spending it on writing this, because I have written about... one sentence of this since I got to uni, I think? Good times.
> 
> (No, I just checked - I've actually written a few paragraphs. Oh, joyous occasion...)

Spells rocket back and forth, splashing across hastily drawn shields or shooting past agile forms into the surrounding trees to be swallowed by darkness unreached by the waning gibbous moon. The frigid night air shivers with the panted breaths of both duellists as they face off, curses bitten out on occasion in response to a near miss or a potentially dangerous mistake, and the wind that ghosts over their sweat-drenched forms is cold but unable to cool the burning of their muscles or soothe the alacritous pounding of their hearts.

Salazar’s chest heaves with the desperate need for oxygen, his limbs begging to be allowed to shake but he brushes the physiological weaknesses of his body aside and focuses on his opponent, knowing that the time to strike is nigh. He has kept himself on the defensive for most of this – and, then, largely through physical evasion rather than by magical means – but the other is starting to tire, wand arm wavering and drooping every once in a while even as more light bursts from it and Salazar drops into a roll, flashing up a shield for the brief moment during which he will not have sight of his counterpart then shifting his magic for a wandless disillusionment charm and dispelling his shield at the same time.

A flick of his near-invisible hand has leaves rustling to his left, and as his opponent turns to follow the movement, he lunges right, his attack launched at the other’s unprotected back. Godric would have called it dishonourable, but then he would have laughed and kissed Salazar’s frown away – and he would not have truly minded in the face of real danger.

Of course, poor Quirinus, who now lies face-down on the ground in a full body-bind, is hardly what one might consider ‘real danger’, but Salazar would argue that there is no use in treating practice as anything other than the real thing.

“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he enunciates, more for Quirinus’s sake than out of any need to cast verbally, and hears the man groan even as he turns his attention to removing first the charm on his own body and then his outer robes altogether, using it to wipe the sweat from his torso and face.

“Remind me _why_ I agreed to this?” Quirinus asks, words muffled slightly by the debris that covers the clearing floor, and Salazar bites back a smile as he watches the other man push up onto hands and knees and then into a standing position. “The outcome is always the same – and yes, I _know_ I told you about that muggle Theory of Change the other week, but I take it back.”

“It’s rather too late for that, I’m afraid,” Salazar tells him, falsely sympathetic. “I’ve already explained it to Harry. And you can’t deny this is excellent for getting your mind off less savoury topics.”

“Yes,” Quirinus sighs, dusting himself off. “And you, too. I know what you’re doing – don’t pretend this is all about _me_.”

Shrugging, Salazar slings his robes over his shoulder and turns in the direction of the manor.

“It’s good practice,” he points out as Quirinus falls into step beside him.

“It is,” Quirinus concedes reluctantly. “I just wish it was less… messy.”

With a small smile, Salazar inclines his head and lets the conversation come to rest there, comfortable quiet filling the space between them in its place. There is no doubt that neither will be returning to their respective beds for quite some time yet, which means that they will have plenty of time to talk once they have cleaned up and reconvened to discuss their research in the Potter Library, slowly adding to and refining their dauntingly extensive list of possible avenues to research with regard to Riddle’s horcruxes.

Unfortunately, Quirinus seems to decide that he has another topic to address as they reach the manor entrance and step into its warmth, delaying the chance to shower and settle into safe, academic conversation.

“It’s been a month since that argument you had with Severus,” he begins, apparently not in the mood to beat around the bush on this, and Salazar mourns the loss of any chance to sidestep this issue even as he respects Quirinus’s objectively sensible manner of approach. “You have not addressed it at all.”

That is not, of course, to say that Salazar will not do his utmost to avoid this conversation anyway.

“We have research to be doing,” he counters, turning for the stairs.

“It won’t take long,” Quirinus returns, clearly not in the mood for any nonsense as he adds, “Or at least, it won’t take much longer than you choose to stall for.”

Setting his jaw, Salazar very pointedly does not look at the other man. He does not wish to discuss this in the slightest – not his reaction to Severus calling him… _that_ , the strength of said reaction, nor the reason behind it.

“You are overstepping your mark, Quirinus,” he warns quietly.

“Then punish me, _my Lord Slytherin_ ,” Quirinus returns, verging on mocking but just gentle enough not to have Salazar’s hackles rising much further. “Severus wrote to _me_ last week to ask if I knew what your aversion to your own surname is –”

“Can you not –” Salazar starts, then stops and bites his lip in silent frustration at his own impulsivity; perhaps releasing his feelings on the matter might be best for the situation, now that he considers it.

It was only the other night, sat in his study to chat quietly until their respective ghosts were banished, that he explained the less well-known aspects of his life to Quirinus. Suddenly, he finds that he feels unusually thankful that he swallowed the spell then, given how much easier it will make this confession in turn.

“It… ‘Potter’ does not _feel_ like my surname, Quirinus. _I_ do not feel like Salazar Potter.”

Licking his lips to dispel their sudden dryness, he wishes faintly that he had left his outer robes on so that he would have pockets to hide his hands in while they twitch with the urge to run through his slowly growing hair or fiddle with his amulet.

“Salazar Potter died not long after he disappeared,” he explains, and perhaps that is dramatic, but it fits well with how he feels. “I am Salazar Slytherin, no more, no less – and yet all I seem to have around me is the life of Salazar Potter, and I do not always appreciate being reminded of that so explicitly.”

“You feel a dissonance with your old identity,” Quirinus summarises, “Which is unfortunately the one which most people expect of you.”

_Perhaps_ , Salazar allows, and settles for inclining his head in not-quite-agreement.

“It feels sometimes as though I have nothing left to remind me that I am Salazar Slytherin,” he admits carefully, “And yet I have everything to remind me that I am Salazar Potter – and it feels…”

He pauses, wondering if this is genuinely something that he wishes to reveal, but forges on after a moment regardless. It is better, he thinks, to put everything that has been bothering him out there, as he has sat and listened to Quirinus do for so many nights lately.

“It feels as though I am betraying my family – that I am saying that my time with them is less important to me than my time with Godric, Helga and Rowena – but I do not feel like a Potter. ‘Potter’ belongs to my parents and my brother, and they are dead. ‘Potter’ belongs to Harry, and he is –”

This time, the stop is less deliberate as he falters with the realisation that he is unsure how to explain it. Harry is his nephew, yes, and they are family, but there is a distance that Salazar feels a certain _need_ to keep, and he cannot think of a way to communicate that.

Luckily, Quirinus has grown to know him well enough. They have spent too many nights sitting up and drinking hot chocolate – no firewhisky, these days, for fear that Salazar might slip into old habits – while trading stories of their insomnia-inducing nightmares for it not to be the case.

“You have been saddled with the responsibility of a child you love very much but have no desire to become a parental figure for, and you’re finding yourself at a loss for what to do,” his closest friend in this day and age fills in for him. “That makes the situation with Harry complicated enough.”

Slowly, Salazar nods.

“I never wanted to be a father,” he confesses for the first time since discussing it with Godric so many years – _centuries_ – ago. “I love children. I love helping them, teaching them, assisting them in growth and knowing that _my work_ shapes the future generation. But children of my own? No. That was always James.”

When his lips attempt to twist with bitterness, he lets them.

“I love Harry,” he continues, Quirinus listening in silence, “But the more I lead him away from his… other relatives, the more it falls to me to take on a parental role that I frankly am not comfortable with. I am… _trying_ , but I will not kid myself into believing that I am doing a good enough job. If there were someone else here – someone to tell me that I should not be saddling Harry with these responsibilities, to provide him with someone _distinct_ from all of that to turn to when he needs to feel safe for a bit…”

“He worships you,” Quirinus offers, and Salazar nods wordlessly, recalling all too easily the way Harry had seemed convinced, the weekend before last, that Salazar would have handled the younger Hogwarts students so much better. “He’s too caught up in being everything you need and want. A child needs unconditional love from a parent, and he does not see himself getting that from you.”

“I don’t know if he _is_ getting that from me,” Salazar adds, deflating. “I don’t know if I can provide that.”

For a moment, quiet falls, the words seeming to hang in the air around them. Despite the tension it induces to have uttered such a thing aloud, Salazar cannot help but feel that a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

“So do you think that ties into your problems with being referred to as a Potter itself?” Quirinus prompts quietly. “Or is it a separate matter that we have simply ended up on?”

There is little that Salazar can do but shrug.

“Who knows?” he sighs a beat later. “Perhaps there is a connection in that I feel as though… It is as though I am expected to take up the mantle of _James_ in Harry’s life. Whether that is a pressure I put on myself or externally sourced, I couldn’t say – more likely the former, I suppose – but there is something in that nonetheless.”

Quirinus nods slowly.

“I can’t say I have any actual solutions for you – but for the record, I think you’re doing well enough with Harry, given the unique factor of the situation. All the same, discussing these issues with Severus – who is undoubtedly the most parental figure in Harry’s life besides yourself and your in-laws – could well help.”

Undoubtedly, Quirinus is right. That does not, of course, mean that Salazar has to like it much – and it does little to solve the other problems, as much as simply talking about his problems with the perception of him as Salazar _Potter_ has been a relief.

“It’s hard to coddle Harry when getting him to adulthood takes priority,” he murmurs, and Quirinus hums in quiet agreement.

Lady Adelina Zabini is as charming as her preceding reputation, her smiles sharp and her eyes sharper but her words warm and silken. Salazar watches her in silence as she greets Lucius and Narcissa, taking in the quiet confidence and self-assuredness with which she carries herself, and knows that she would not care in the slightest that he believes her to be very much the right person to take on the mantle of Dark Lord following Riddle’s defeat. She does not seem the type to want or need anyone else’s approval.

As she starts to turn her attention towards him, he notes for the first time that he can _feel_ the protection wards around her, tiny anchors woven against her scalp by the four tight braids that curl around her neck. It is most impressive, but he presses down the desire to dive right into conversation about it; now is neither the time nor the place. The scholar must take the backseat while the politician earns the trust of potential allies.

“Lady Zabini,” he greets, bowing slightly lower than entirely necessary as he folds his hands in front of him, the right before the left to leave his House ring on display. “It is truly a pleasure.”

Lady Zabini’s eyes flicker down to Salazar’s ring, and her lips curve up in the faintest of smiles.

“Lord Slytherin,” she purrs, returning his bow with a flourish and taking his hand to shake when he offers it. “What a _delightful_ surprise. Please, call me Adelina.”

“Adelina,” Salazar confirms. “I would be honoured if you’d call me Salazar.”

“As you wish, Salazar,” Adelina agrees, seemingly more satisfied by the second. “I must say, this was hardly what I expected when Lucius asked to meet with me.”

“I do hope you can forgive my husband’s discretion,” Narcissa offers calmly, only the brief flicker of her eyes towards Salazar to show for the tension she feels beneath the façade. “Salazar does rather insist that his identity remains in strict confidence.”

“That I do,” Salazar allows, waving towards the study with a smile. “I hope you don’t mind if I take a few minutes of your time.”

Adelina inclines her head graciously, allowing Salazar to lead her away from their hosts without commenting on the none-to-subtle powerplay that Lucius and Narcissa’s lack of inclusion entails and settling easily into a seat by the hearth once the study door is closed behind them.

“Salazar Potter,” she muses as Salazar crosses the room to join her, and Salazar finds that, following his conversation with Quirinus the other night, it is indeed much easier to ignore the use of his old surname than it was before. “Lord of House Slytherin. An interesting development, I’ll allow you.”

“Thank you.”

Salazar lowers himself carefully into the seat opposite her, crossing one leg over the other and resting his palms lightly on the arms of his chair, content to wait while she takes him in. He has had his chance before she even paid him any mind, and now he will extend her the courtesy of catching up in that regard.

“I suppose the name does not require much commenting on,” she continues finally. “It’s an intriguing coincidence nonetheless.”

“Tricky things, coincidences,” Salazar returns. “I personally find them difficult to prove.”

Again, her lips curl upwards.

“Are you asking me to consider that your name is not a coincidence?” she asks him with a hint of amusement. “Might I then propose a theory that, for some inane reason, Salazar Slytherin decided that he did not want any Lords of his noble House to hold a forename that differs from his own?”

“You might,” Salazar allows, turning one hand over to examine the scars on his palm briefly before flicking his wrist to pull his wand from its holster and into his grasp. “If you are feeling particularly open-minded, however, perhaps I might instead tell you a rather fantastical tale and invite Lucius in here to administer some Veritaserum while I do so. He has been rather _dying_ for me to explicitly admit the things I’d like to tell you.”

He does not mention that Lucius himself has not previously heard some of the things that will be revealed in the coming discussion in any sense.

Adelina’s eyes glitter keenly as she leans forward, hands clasped before her and elbows resting on the arms of her chair.

“My dear Salazar, if the story you have to offer is even half as fascinating as your name, title and wand, I assure you that I cannot wait.”

With a short nod, Salazar stands to call Lucius in and decides that he need not provide any warning that unwarranted questions will have him gone in a heartbeat, before the Veritaserum can force him to answer in their hearing. He has no doubt that Adelina will expect nothing less.

The explanation itself is shorter and far more succinct than Salazar expected. Lucius’s grey eyes gleam with triumph all the while, but Salazar ignores it and simply talks, letting the potion in his system pull the truth forth and answering their questions without hesitation. Adelina accepts the tale after examining the remaining dregs of Veritaserum from the vial Salazar drank from, exhausting her own repertoire of spells for detecting falsehoods – all of them borderline legal at best – and viewing several short and rather inconsequential memories of the building of Hogwarts itself, but is understandably less keen to pass judgement on the situation arising from it.

“I’m sure you understand my desire to think this through,” she declares, standing and reaching for Salazar’s hand to shake firmly. “Perhaps when we meet again, we can discuss the implications this might have on the theories of long-term time-travel.”

“And perhaps we can discuss the masterful ward-crafting within your braids,” Salazar returns evenly, inclining his head as she smiles.

“Perhaps.”

He does not demand that she undergo any privacy enchantments or make any vows, simply reminding her that he prefers discretion then allowing Lucius – who will not meet his eyes – to see her out and settling back into his chair with a quiet groan at the previously-ignored ache in his thighs. If there is one downside to his regular duelling with Quirinus in the forest at the borders of the manor, it is that the physical strain can be difficult to ignore the next day; most of the time, he appreciates the reminder of his hard work but, on occasion, it can be more of an inconvenience.

He should be glad, he supposes, that his little fling with Fudge rarely requires anything strenuous enough to add to the ache.

“Can Dobby be getting Sir a Pain-Relieving Potion?”

It is all Salazar can do not to jump, but he forces down any other reaction in a second and turns his attention to the scrawny, battered creature before him, taking in the shabby attire and the almost fearful stare.

“No, thank you… Dobby,” he replies slowly, and the small, awed squeak that his expression of gratitude earns brings a sour taste to his mouth. “Perhaps you can answer a few questions for me, though?”

Dobby nods frantically, and Salazar’s discomfort only grows.

“Who do you work for, Dobby?” he asks, voice soft and even to avoid intimidating the other being.

Briefly, Dobby glances to the door, Salazar following his gaze to ensure that Lucius is not about to enter, then turns to squint at Salazar in faint confusion.

“Dobby works for Master Lucius and Mistress Narcissa, Sir,” he says, as Salazar expected – though the titles are exactly what he hoped not to hear.

“Do you have a contract with either of them?”

Dobby shakes his head.

“No, Sir,” he replies.

“And do either of them pay you?”

“Dobby is not being paid, Sir,” the house-elf tells Salazar miserably. “Dobby is not liking it, but Dobby is doing as he is told.”

A pause, then Dobby reaches for a nearby candlestick and starts to bash himself over the head with it.

“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! _Bad Dobby_!”

Salazar flicks his hand out instinctively, freezing the agitated elf in place then directing the candlestick back to its previous position.

“There is nothing wrong in expressing your disliking of slavery, Dobby,” he assures, even as he tries to work out where to go from here – whether there is anything to be done in the near future without potentially risking Harry. “I will not tell Lucius.”

For the time being, Lucius is under his control. He holds enough material over the other man’s head to keep his blond acquaintance wary of crossing him, and he is powerful enough to diffuse any threat that Lucius might present to him. If or when Riddle makes his return, however, this position will become a lot less assured. Salazar has plans for house-elf rights in the works, with the cooperation of several other Houses, so is the potential loss of Lucius’s loyalty _really_ worth the freeing of one elf an undefined length of time before all others trapped in morally unacceptable forms of servitude?

Perhaps, helping Dobby will have the opposite effect; perhaps it has been too long since Salazar provided a _strong_ reminder that he is the one in charge here. Perhaps, too, if Lucius has already lost what he might stand to lose in supporting Salazar’s long-term plans for house-elf rights, he will be more amenable to supporting the cause and, in doing so, pulling a number of other Dark families into line.

Lucius will not risk jumping ship so soon after discovering the truth of Salazar’s past and identity, Salazar knows that much, so there is unlikely to be any risk in Lucius sharing information that he should not until such information becomes useless to keep anyway, so long as Salazar remains careful in how much he tells the blond. There will likely be time to make attempts at reparation before Riddle’s return, supported by young Draco’s friendship with Harry, and any potential strain on his and Lucius’s working relationship will be somewhat mitigated by Salazar’s new acquaintance with Adelina in the meantime.

Narcissa, at least, does not seem the sort to be overly fussed by Salazar insisting that they employ rather than enslave their house-elf or elves, and under reasonable working conditions at that.

“Are you the only house-elf working for Lucius and Narcissa?” he asks Dobby, who has remained in the study, hovering awkwardly during Salazar’s extended pondering.

“Yes, Sir,” Dobby confirms, nodding. “It is being a lot of work for Dobby alone.”

“Thank you, Dobby,” Salazar tells him, and Dobby disappears with a sharp crack just as the study door swings open once again.

The only question remaining is how best to approach this, but Salazar thinks that he already has the answer to that one, too.

“I suppose that went reasonably well,” Lucius declares, strolling over to take the seat across from Salazar, which Adelina previously occupied. “She took it without any outright denial, at least.”

“It went as I expected,” Salazar dismisses, and moves on swiftly and firmly, hardening his tone as he locks eyes with his companion. “What I find less satisfactory, Lucius, is the situation with your house-elf’s employment.”

“ _That_ batty little thing?” Lucius snorts, rolling his eyes. “Sometimes I think it actually _wants_ clothes.”

Pressing his lips tightly together, Salazar inhales through his nose to calm himself.

“Perhaps he does,” he agrees, mild only for a moment before the steel returns to his voice, “And you’re going to give him them.”

Lucius blinks.

“ _What_?”

“You’re going to give him clothes,” Salazar reiterates, leaving no room for arguments, “As well as a proper employment contract with suitable wages and working conditions. You’re going to employ a second house-elf with an equally fair contract – both in line with _their_ working and lifestyle requirements – to take on half of the workload. I will be back here in a week to speak to Dobby and his new colleague, and if the results are not sufficient, then there will be retribution, is that understood?”

Lucius merely stares, apparently baffled, so Salazar continues speaking, letting the blond take some more time to come up with a reply.

“If you do not wish to do this, then you can, of course, simply send Dobby on his way after freeing him, though in that situation, I expect you to inform him that, should he need or want support in finding employment, he is more than welcome to find me. Do you understand me, Lucius?”

This is hardly enough to cause more than the smallest of dents in the problem; there is little he can do until he has the political power to get the bills needed for a proper reform through, and trying it too early may do more to damage his position than to advance it. Nonetheless, he hopes it will have some positive impact.

He hopes Helga would approve.

Lucius’s eyes flicker over Salazar’s face, the grey within seeming colder than usual as he assesses Salazar’s sincerity, then comes a curt nod.

“I understand, Salazar.”

Satisfied, Salazar returns the nod in stiff silence and steers his attention to working out when the best time to visit Severus would be. This coming Wednesday, perhaps, before he goes to deal with Eavan’s remains.

Having spent much of the evening in open, honest conversation with the Potions Master, Salazar leaves Severus’s office only when Harry arrives, offering his nephew a warm smile and a firm embrace under Severus’s watchful gaze before making his departure. It is a good discussion that he has had with his brother’s old nemesis – his sister-in-law’s old friend – and, although he does not doubt that there is much more to be said and solutions to the problems raised have yet to be reached, there is a sense of satisfaction that he will not deny.

All the same, he does not intend to cut into Harry’s time learning Occlumency with Severus, so he circumvents any conversation by apparating to Eavan’s chamber – he can hardly walk there now that he knows of the Weasley boys’ map – without a word. He is, after all, here on other business.

From a distance, he can almost kid himself that Eavan could be sleeping. Her magnificent form sprawls languidly across the floor, limp in a parody of relaxation, but there is a stillness to her that belies the illusion, and he barely has time to orientate himself before the stench of death hits. She is not rotting; he has placed her body under a multitude of complex stasis enchantments, weaved across the length of her body. There is, however, a metaphysical aroma, not exactly magical but perhaps something close, that pervades the chamber, twisting the very air within.

Grimacing, Salazar crosses to his old friend’s side without fanfare. He refuses to draw this out, well aware that it will only be more painful for it. She never was one for sentimentalism, anyway, and he will honour that beyond her passing. That does not mean that he will not take the utmost care in working over her corpse. Basilisks are creatures of practicality, Eavan no exception, and he will not disrespect her by letting any part of her remains go to waste.

With a breath drawn in for composure, he starts his work. His movements are meticulous and precise, and he blocks out any and all thought of the life that once existed within the form that he is now dismantling, suppressing the memories of his friend and the tears that rise alongside. Eavan is resting now, and there is no use in dwelling on what has been and gone.

There is only moving on for Harry’s sake.

He does not know how long it takes, in the end. Certainly, it is several hours at least; he is glad that he informed Quirinus of his little excursion, if only so that the other will not make some kind of fuss should he not return in whatever Quirinus considers suitable time. After that unknown stretch of seconds ticking by in their thousands, however, he stands numb and unusually small on the floor of his large chamber, Eavan’s remains packaged around him under shrinking charms and anti-contamination wards.

He tries not to think too hard about any of it, for fear of giving in to the nausea that threatens to swamp him every once in a while. Instead, he simply takes hold of his quarry and gathers it close to his chest, then steps and twists.

To Salazar’s surprise, Quirinus is waiting in the foyer of Potter Manor despite the darkness of the sky outside. The other man does not speak on Salazar’s arrival, merely stepping away from his resting place against the wall and taking Salazar’s precious cargo to place it into a trunk layered with expansion, preservation, and cushioning charms. Salazar lets the jars and vials slip from his grasp one by one under Quirinus’s assured guidance, blinking until he stops seeing the magic plastered over everything wherever he looks.

“Do you need a shower?” Quirinus asks, when there is nothing more in Salazar’s arms.

There is little Salazar can do besides nod in mute silence, his tongue thick and strangely heavy in his mouth. When Quirinus takes hold of his arm and starts to lead him through the Manor, he is grateful for the aid, though he does not say it aloud; it feels easier not to think too much at the moment.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have done this so close to Samhain,” Quirinus adds, as though this is a conversation like any other.

Salazar’s hands are starting to shake, and he finds that they are much more interesting than anything else happening around him. He wants them to be, anyway – but when did his _wants_ ever matter in anything?

On second thoughts, it might be better not to look at his hands at all, because there is blood crusted beneath his fingernails that he had not previously noticed, and he can see the mottled scars peeking around the edges, hinting at the mess that remains of his palms these days. Rowena will not be reading them any time soon.

He burned his palms the day Eavan died – the day he killed her. It was Severus who held him back from burning everything else, tugging him in and away from what had, for a matter of seconds, remained of Godric.

Quirinus, too, pulls him in and holds him upright, letting him fall apart until tears mingle with hot shower spray and then until he can stand alone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not a chapter, just a notice, sorry! In summary, no more chapters for the next few weeks due to workload, but the next one will be posted 6th December at the latest - so three weeks from now.

Feasgar math! Ciamar a tha sibh?

Just to go into more detail on that... Essentially, I have a lot of work and not much time to do it - Oxbridge terms are infamously shorter than an average UK university's, but suffice to say that they do *not* lessen the total amount of work (it could well be higher, for all I know) - so I have very little time and/or energy for writing at the moment, never mind to the standard I want to be producing.

Although I am now at a stage where I actually know what's going to happen in the rest of the series - and I am very much looking forward to you all reading it - I have not written a big chunk of it still. I have one completed and edited chapter left, then half of another that has not been edited, and that is... it. In light of that, I am going to take a break from posting chapters for - probably - the rest of Michaelmas Term and will post the next chapter on the Sunday after it finishes, which is 06/12/2020. From then, we should be back to a normal update schedule and, if I get enough writing done over the holidays, we may not even need another break partway through Hillary - and the same with Trinity.

That said, I will still be making time to reply to comments, as this is easier to work into my schedule and requires less overall time commitment. So, if you have any thoughts on this fic, on the series as a whole, any critiques or things you're particularly enjoying, serious or outlandish theories, even thoughts about other fics or just random chats that you'd like to have with someone... The comment button is below.

(To clarify - Oxford terms are named Michaelmas, Hillary and Trinity. Because, yes, we have *named* our terms. Forget first, second, third, or autumn, winter, spring, or anything like that... We, like Cambridge, have given them distinct names.)

Any questions, please go ahead and ask, and I hope you all are well and taking care of yourself. If you ever need to talk, just say the word. I may or may not bother to delete this chapter when I post the next one. For now, however...

Mar sin leibh! 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello... We do appear to be back, as promised. Not much to say other than that we should be back to a regular update schedule (though I still haven't finished writing next week's chapter, never mind gone through the proof-reading stage...) and also, if anyone follows rugby enough to know what I'm talking about, I am exhausted from the acute stress of the last few hours, I think I have actually damaged my shoulder from hitting the couch cushions and my own legs too hard, and Owen Farrell is a beautiful man but someone needs to get him an HIA. I've honestly been waiting for him to get one since about the second minute of the match.
> 
> Regardless:

Hogsmeade is incredible. It isn’t just the village itself, with its fantastical shops and warm, cheery atmosphere – so infectious that Harry can almost look past the _Wanted_ posters plastered about the place – but simply the joy of spending a day with his friends, exploring this new and unfamiliar place for the first time. It might make a good memory for the Patronus charm, in fact, if he can hold onto the easy warmth of Hermione’s bright laughter and the security of Dudley’s arm thrown around his shoulders the next time they stand in Professor Lupin’s office.

Together, they roam the entire village, from the Three Broomsticks to the Shrieking Shack.

“My dad used to visit this place a lot with his friends,” he muses to Hermione, who squints at it with confusion clear on her face. “From within the school grounds, Salazar says – there was some kind of passage, but he doesn’t know anything more than that.”

“Which means it’s a more recent development, than… well,” she fills in, finishing on a shrug. “Wonder why…”

Nodding, Harry takes a moment longer to stare at it before letting Draco, who is clearly starting to suffer in the biting wind that buffets them, call him away. He can always come back some other time.

“No Wizengamot session this evening, right?” Dudley checks as they make their way back to the main village, and Harry nods his confirmation.

Truthfully, he feels more than a little glad for it, because Master Snape has been so overrun by anxious Seventh-Years lately that Professor Lupin had to take him down to meet Salazar last week and probably would have again today, and Harry just doesn’t feel quite as _safe_ with him as with Master Snape.

“Not on Samhain,” Draco agrees at once. “I think half the members would riot if anyone suggested that.”

No one comments on the fact that ‘half’ is a lot less than it would have been a few decades ago; no one needs to.

“It feels weird not having the study group, either,” Hermione sighs.

Harry has to agree with that. The study group was cancelled by way of near-unanimous vote because of the Hogsmeade weekend, but it has been a constant throughout their school lives since the start of First Year, and changing the schedule now, even just every once in a while, is unsettling. At least assisting the younger groups helped a little this morning, but they aren’t _Harry_ ’s year, and they don’t have the same atmosphere. They are less united, and it rankles him somewhat.

He wants to fix it, but he doesn’t know how.

“We’re still on for this evening, though, right?” Neville checks quickly. “For the Samhain ritual?”

“Of course,” Harry assures him at once. “Yeah, no, Hogsmeade’s not getting in the way of that.”

“If a troll can’t stop it, a visit to a village won’t,” Dudley adds, grinning. “A basilisk didn’t, either.”

“If _the_ _older years never had any trouble_ ,” Hermione puts in, pointed, “We won’t.”

That is, Harry has to concede, probably the most sensible argument out of any of them.

“Good,” Neville mumbles, shoulders easing. “I think Ron’s actually going to join in on this one.”

Harry perks up at once. He should probably stop getting used to new people joining, actually, but maybe if they start taking the younger years under their wing, they can keep it going for a little while yet…?

On second thoughts, he doesn’t like the idea of the ritual getting too big; Samhain is personal. It isn’t to be shared by too many at once. The souls would weigh too heavy on the magic.

“I mean,” he begins with a shrug instead of voicing any of that, “What could go wrong this year, you know?”

Dudley stops in his tracks.

“Why would you _say_ that?”

Several hours later, Harry would concede to his cousin’s point if he weren’t too busy sitting in stunned, cold silence on a purple sleeping bag, trying not to throw up. He has already spoken to Salazar, and it doesn’t even seem like the attack was aimed at _him_ , for some reason, because he’s fairly sure that his Sorting is common enough knowledge, but still.

Sirius Black was in the castle tonight. Sirius Black could have passed right by the Great Hall during the feast. He could have gone to Ravenclaw Tower, could have broken in and waited for Harry to come up, sprung an ambush and…

Lifting his thumb, he bites anxiously at the knuckle then lowers it, unwilling to let anyone see that the events have unsettled him so much. He needs to be calm and rational, the strong presence that they can look to.

“Harry?” Terry whispers. “Do you want to get everyone together and do the ritual?”

The ritual, right. They were just getting together for it when the news came. Hermione probably still has the candle in her pocket, wherever she is.

“Sure,” he agrees, and hates the way his voice cracks.

He doesn’t feel up to leading the ritual tonight.

Sirius Black was in the castle, and his parents died because of that – that _fucking bastard_. It doesn’t feel right to lead his peers in a ritual to honour their dead, his parents included, when he is still terrified that Sirius Black could burst in here at any moment and kill him too. It doesn’t feel right when he is so worried about joining the very dead that he is meant to be celebrating.

He can’t ask someone else to lead the ritual, though. That wouldn’t be right.

Slowly, he shifts and readies himself to stand, unsure if his legs, which have been weak since he heard the news, will be able to take his weight at the moment. Before he can try, however, the doors swing open and half the school jumps. The fact that he is not alone in flinching makes Harry feel only slightly better.

“Minister Fudge, I assure you that this is not necessary –”

“Yes, yes, Dumbledore,” Fudge agrees, waving a distracted hand with the air of someone who has not been paying attention from the start. “You must understand the concerns, though. Lord Potter is a valued member of our society, and there would be uproar if he were hurt. Lord Slytherin, certainly, is proving to be very protective of his allies…”

Does the man realise that the entirety of Hogwarts’ student body is sitting here and listening to him? Does he _care_?

“Salazar Potter must be quite concerned as well, I imagine?” Dumbledore returns as they near Harry, quieter and strangely snide.

For a moment, Fudge looks flustered, though Harry can’t for the life of him fathom why.

“That – That is neither here nor there,” Fudge hurries out, relaxing when he spots Harry. “Ah, there you are, Harry. So good to see you well.”

Harry finds his feet at once.

“Cornelius,” he returns, pasting a smile across his face and shaking the hand that Fudge offers. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Fudge looks him over and, if anything, appears more concerned than ever. Clearly, Harry needs to fix that.

“Certainly, you’re much better company than we’ve had so far this evening,” he tacks on and, after a beat’s hesitation, Fudge chortles, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Yes, well, I’m just here to check that you’re alright – is there somewhere a little more secure we can speak?”

The question is thrown over one shoulder to Dumbledore, dismissive to the last; whatever else Fudge might do or be, Harry has to admire his treatment of someone for whom they seem to share a mutual dislike.

“The room behind the staff table should do the trick,” Dumbledore tells them with false geniality, and Harry is glad that the man has stayed a safe distance away; the last thing he needs tonight is Dumbledore any closer to him than absolutely necessary.

“I’ll be back for the ritual in a few minutes,” Harry tells Terry, who nods hurriedly without tearing his wide eyes from the Minister.

Just when he thought that he couldn’t hold up the persona of near-untouchable power, Harry reflects faintly, along comes the Minister for Magic to bolster his reputation with a personal well-being check. How convenient.

“Are you well, Harry?” Fudge asks as soon as the door is closed behind them, hand falling once more to Harry’s shoulder. “Your uncle is most concerned, you understand. Well – that is to say, we all are.”

Harry has learnt more than enough from Salazar that he can read between the lines with little trouble, and the thought that Salazar pulled strings to send the Minister himself to check on Harry is touching to say the least; incompetent as Fudge might seem at times, he still has a good deal of clout, particularly amongst the less politically aware within Hogwarts. It’s almost like a direct message from Salazar assuring Harry that he can take his hands off the broomstick handle for a second and let his uncle look after everything.

Any other day, and Harry might be bothered by that. This evening, it is a desperate relief.

“Thank you, Cornelius,” he replies. “It means a lot that you came here – and I’m sure my uncle will be very grateful as well.”

He doesn’t exactly know what significance that last line holds for Fudge, but it felt right to say, and it certainly seems to be the correct decision, if the way Fudge blinks, shifts, and almost smiles is anything to go by.

“Yes, well…” Fudge coughs. “Do pass on my regards to him.”

Not for the first time, Harry has to wonder exactly what it is that Salazar holds over Fudge, because it seems increasingly clear to him that the man is like a puppy where his uncle is concerned – or perhaps a peacock. Still, that doesn’t warrant any consideration tonight, when he just wants to get Samhain done and go to sleep.

“I don’t want to keep you for any longer than necessary tonight, though,” he offers as he reaches out to open the door again. “Unless you’ve already completed the ritual…?”

“No, you’re quite right,” Fudge agrees, patting Harry yet again on the shoulder and steering him back into the Great Hall. “I’m sure your classmates will be waiting for you as well.”

“Unless they find someone else to lead it, I’m sure they will be,” Harry tells him dryly, taking note of the surprised and impressed blink that earns him with a small jolt of satisfaction. “I’ll see you next Sunday, then, shall I?”

“Of course, my dear boy…”

Fudge tips his bowler hat then turns for the exit, leaving Harry to look around the hall and find his year-mates all waiting for him expectantly. It’s still, admittedly, in the back of his head to ask someone else to lead the ritual – and he could probably get away with it after that visit – but the knowledge that Salazar took a step beyond their quick chat in the mirror and sent Fudge up here to check on him has soothed his restless emotions for now. He can do this, he’s sure of it.

It helps that the space his peers have left for him in the circle is right between Dudley and Hermione, too – and there’s Ron, shifting anxiously between Dean and Neville a little way along. _Excellent_.

At some point, he needs to have a good think about exactly why Sirius Black might have come into the castle if _not_ to murder Harry – breaking into Gryffindor Tower seems rather counterproductive to that particular end – but tonight is not that night. Instead, he drops down onto the floor and smiles around at everyone, the expression not even that forced.

“Everyone ready?” he checks, then takes a deep breath when they all nod, fixing his eyes on the flame.

Over the next week, the castle settles gradually back into pre-break-in state, no one staring oddly at suits of armour or jumping when other students or staff appear around corners. It helps, Harry thinks, that the Gryffindor-Slytherin match is coming up on Saturday and, even if Harry doesn’t care about it as much as he would a Ravenclaw match, it _is_ the most famous rivalry within the school. Gryffindor-Slytherin matches are never the prettiest, and they’re certainly rarely clean, but, _Merlin_ , are they fun.

“I don’t understand you all,” Neville moans on Saturday morning, when their run devolves into a debate between Harry and Dudley over the strengths and weaknesses of the respective teams (pure guesswork, given that this is the first match of the year so no one has seen them play); Draco is with his team, which is probably for the best, and Hermione looks as despairing as Neville himself. “What’s the point? They’re both going to cheat anyway.”

“Part of the fun,” Harry dismisses as they slow to a walk for the last section of their trail. “Dud, I love you, but seriously –”

“Part of the fun?” Hermione huffs. “What’s the point of having rules if they’re only going to be broken?”

“It’s about when you break them?” Harry offers weakly, because he doesn’t really have a better explanation than that. “I mean, sure, I wouldn’t normally condone breaking the laws – it’s just not something you should do in sport, particularly when it could be dangerous. But the point is that the rivalry is just _that_ fierce.”

“They hate each other so much they don’t care,” Dudley chimes in, nodding. “It’s just a _major_ game of one-upmanship. It gets dirtier and dirtier until they’re both blatantly cheating, and it kind of balances itself out. The Slytherins are better at it, though.”

“See, I’ll agree with you _there_ ,” Harry tells him. “But I still think –”

“ _No_ , Haz, what you think is _wrong_!”

Hermione sighs behind them.

Eventually, the debate dies down – not so much because either Dudley or Harry are willing to let it lie, but more because they have to part ways to shower and get a bit more breakfast before the game, and neither of them are about to risk being late for the start. Hermione watches the two of them sprint for their respective rooms and shakes her head, turning to offer Neville a shrug before trudging down to the dungeons. She might not care about the match itself, but she has more than enough house loyalty that she wants to be there to support the team, never mind that Draco will be playing his first match of the year at Seeker. She knows that he is desperate to win this one, particularly after losing to Harry last year.

It doesn’t take long to shower and change, and she slips into the seat beside Draco when she reaches the Great Hall, dropping an arm over his shoulder to offer a gentle squeeze.

“You’ll do brilliantly,” she tells him earnestly. “You were good before, and you know you’ve worked a lot over the summer.”

He flashes her a grateful smile, but there is a hint of nausea behind the expression all the same.

“Fred and George haven’t been talking to me all week,” he mutters, as though Hermione didn’t already know that – as though they haven’t been giving her a milder version of that same cold shoulder. “Were Harry and Dudley arguing this morning?”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione nods.

“They can’t agree which team has the better Chasers – though I know Harry thinks Slytherin will win on account of their Seeker.”

She fixes him with a pointed stare, but he only returns the gaze with increasing dread.

“…And Dudley…?”

Dudley’s main contribution on the Seeker point was that the Gryffindor Seeker is absolutely terrible, but that, she thinks, is essentially the same thing.

“The one thing they could agree on,” she assures him, lifting a finger to tap his nose lightly. “I’ve said it already: you’ll be wonderful. Have you ever known me to be wrong on something?”

He smiles weakly at the joke, head snapping around when the sudden hush at the table makes it clear that Flint is standing.

“I’ll see you after the game,” he tells her, then slips away to follow his Captain.

Shaking her head, Hermione turns back to her breakfast and stifles a yawn. She has so much to do today: a letter to write and send to Salazar Potter – _Slytherin_ , she corrects absently – as well as one for her parents, an essay for Arithmancy and another for Ancient Runes as well as the research for Charms, the extra reading that Salazar has set her on warding…

It is almost tempting to skip the game for a nap, but she can hardly do that; it wouldn’t be fair on Draco, certainly. Besides that, she has never quite stopped walking a fine line of sorts with her housemates, and it never pays to remind them that she is one of them – and _invested_ in staying that way.

With a sigh, she looks down at her plate and decides that she doesn’t feel particularly hungry. She would rather keep the mental edge that the run has given her, at any rate, and eating until she feels full is not the way to go about that. Pushing the last of her breakfast away, she stands to start for the exit and is relieved to catch sight of Harry moving as well. Perhaps by now she should be over her dislike of walking alone, having been at Hogwarts for over two years, but no one has called her out on it yet.

It is just nice to remind herself that she has friends to walk with, is all.

“I meant to say earlier,” Harry begins as they walk down the castle steps, “Are you getting enough sleep? You look tired.”

Hermione almost falters, touched by the unexpected concern, but manages to keep herself walking all the same.

“I’m fine,” she assures him. “I’ve been a bit busy, but I’m settling down into everything now.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she continues.

“Salazar gave me a few suggestions that helped, actually.”

It was, in all honesty, a rather startling reminder that, beneath the legends of a man both great and terrible, he earned his fame through nothing more or less than committing himself to the education of others. Well, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration, but the point stands regardless.

It was also rather a surprise that he knew about the time-turner, but _that_ , she certainly can’t tell Harry about.

“He fixes everything,” Harry hums.

Hermione can’t help but frown at that idea. That hadn’t been what she was saying; Salazar simply gave her a few pointers and sat back to let her figure it all out for herself, like any good teacher. At any rate, the image she has of him is not that of a man who simply swoops in to save the day and deal with everyone else’s messes. People are too complicated for that.

She doesn’t get a chance to tell Harry that before Dudley scares them both witless by sneaking up on them from behind.

“Your faces…” he chortles for the rest of the walk to the stadium, while Hermione tries to calm her thudding heart and wonders if Dudley has considered the fact that Harry, who looks suspiciously pale, has a mass murderer out to kill him in the local area. “Oh, Merlin… Too good…”

After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione reaches for Harry’s hand and squeezes gently, offering a reassuring smile alongside. She only relaxes when he returns the gesture, weak though it might be.

Unfortunately, they have to split soon after – only Harry simply waves his cousin away and turns to follow her, grinning at Dudley’s raised eyebrow.

“Didn’t you know, Dud?” he calls. “’Claws are supporting Slytherin this year!”

Dudley rolls his eyes but wanders off to join Neville, leaving Hermione and Harry to pick their way through the green-bannered stands – with, she notices now that Harry has mentioned it, quite a few Ravenclaw strewn throughout.

“We had a debate last night in the common room,” Harry explains quietly. “Which house traits make for a more successful side in theory out of Gryffindor and Slytherin. Slytherin won, so… We’re supporting Slytherin.”

It sounds so… _Ravenclaw_ that Hermione has to laugh, shaking her head as they finally settle onto the bench next to Blaise and Pansy.

“Hermione!” Pansy greets, throwing an arm over her shoulder and kissing her cheek happily. “We were wondering if you were going to skive with Daphne for a bit.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow, expression smooth – a skill Blaise taught her back in their First Year, and which always seems to make him proud to see her putting to good use.

“And miss this riveting game of…?” she trails off as though she can’t remember the name of it, waving a limply dismissive hand in the direction of the pitch. “What sort of heathen do you take me for?”

Blaise coughs quietly.

“Of course,” Pansy agrees, feigning obliviousness. “Harry, is there a _reason_ all the Ravenclaws are over here? I mean, there are normally more of you than there are Hufflepuffs for this game, but it seems like the entire _House_ is here.”

“We are,” Harry admits freely, and launches into the same explanation as he gave Hermione.

“Seen Draco this morning?” Blaise asks in lowered tones, grimacing when Hermione nods. “He was absolutely bricking it when I woke up. I don’t think he slept much.”

Hermione isn’t the slightest bit surprised to hear that. Draco did look awful this morning, and the skin beneath his eyes seemed like perhaps the only part of his face that wasn’t in danger of matching his game robes.

“He stresses too much,” she sighs. “He’s still worried that people will think he bought his way on.”

“ _Please_ ,” Blaise snorts at once. “Even I know he’s good. He’s just…”

His eyes flash across to Harry, who has fallen into conversation with Pansy and Theo, the other boy having just arrived with Vince.

“Not as good as some,” Hermione fills in with a nod. “Some who happen to be insanely talented, or so I’m told, but… All the same.”

“All the same,” Blaise agrees, and then the teams are emerging onto the pitch, so the conversation ends there.

The match is… a match. An intense match, and Hermione lets herself be swept up in the energy of those around her, screaming and cheering with each Slytherin score, screaming and booing with each Gryffindor score – screaming at every significant event in the match, in summary. The Slytherins are edging it, just barely, and Hermione doesn’t have to look to know that Pansy is elated; she can hear the hoarse quality to the other girl’s voice every time the quaffle grazes the Gryffindor Keeper’s fingertips and slips through.

The storm that comes rolling in is, admittedly, less fun, but Hermione learnt the Umbrella Charm early on to keep her barely tameable hair under some semblance of control when the weather turns wet, so they stay dry if they huddle together – a venture better served when Blaise gets the hang of it as well. It has the added benefit of allowing Hermione a bit of breathing space for herself as well, which is something, but half of her Slytherin year-mates are still clustered around her, with Harry further away than she might have liked.

Perhaps the warmth of her peers’ body heat is the reason that she doesn’t notice the cold and misery straight away as it starts to creep over the stadium. Harry does – of course he does – and his hand flies to his wand before Hermione has even realised that anything is up, never mind _what_ , but he had a worse reaction on the train and the same is true now.

A little squashed out of their sheltering huddle – he said he didn’t mind the rain, so he stayed on the edge – he is balancing against the railings at the front of the stand. It is the sort of position that would normally be fine; he isn’t really in any danger of falling – only that was when he was _conscious_ , not now with the dementors swooping over.

“ _Harry_!” Hermione screams, trying to push her way through her year-mates to reach him, but it is too little, too late.

His eyes slip closed, and there he goes: tumbling over the railing and _down_ , plummeting towards the ground below –

“Harry, _no_!” a vaguely familiar voice cries as she stares, horrified, and waits for Harry to hit the ground; he doesn’t, slowing instead to a gentle stop and drifting down towards the water-logged turf below.

A moment later, a silver lion bursts forth from beneath the shadows of the Gryffindor stands, bounding forth to meet the horde of _dementors_ that has come to invade the game. In its silver light, she catches the quickest glimpse of a cloaked figure, a wand raised in one direction – towards Harry – and a hand in the other, then Salazar Slytherin – because it couldn’t have been anyone else – steps and turns and is gone, his Patronus all that remains to show of his presence.

That and Harry lying on the grass, seemingly unharmed but not _moving_. Hermione springs from her seat, shoving her housemates and his from her path as she sprints for the stairs; she doesn’t think she has ever run so fast in her life, not even last year when the basilisk was potentially chasing them down into the dungeons, and if something has happened to Harry…

She reaches him before anyone else – reaches him and fumbles for her wand, stuttering her way through a warming charm because he feels cold and it is all she can think to do. Salazar’s silhouette is emblazoned against her eyelids when she closes her eyes, and so is Harry’s face as he fell, twisted in distress under the dementors’ influence.

“Miss Granger.”

A hand lands on her shoulder and squeezes gently, then Professor Snape stoops into her field of vision to lift Harry from the ground.

“Come along,” he tells her, and there is nothing to do but stumble after him, up to the castle and into the Hospital Wing and then, when Madam Pomfrey shoos them both away, down to his office. “Here. Take a seat.”

She accepts both the Calming Draught and the chair he waves her to in silence, clutching one in trembling fingers and linking her ankles around the legs of the other.

“Harry will be fine, Miss Granger,” Professor Snape tells her.

“What spell did Salazar use to stop him falling?” she asks in return, and swallows the Calming Draught in one go.

“ _Arresto momentum_ ,” Professor Snape responds at once. “To use it to save someone from falling is a different matter to casting it, however, and requires rather more control. It is not the fall that kills someone, it’s –”

“It’s the moment they hit the ground,” Hermione fills in quietly, and she thinks that this might be the most they have spoken one-on-one since he called her into his office that very first night to sit her down and talk her through exactly what she might face for her blood status, and where she should go if she needs help. “You have to slow them down gradually? But if it’s one spell… Do you somehow… feed it through? Increase the strength – no, you don’t necessarily have to increase the strength, if it enacts a constant deceleration… You just have to stop the deceleration from happening at too quick a rate.”

“Exactly like that,” Professor Snape tells her, something odd in his voice that Hermione might have heard once or twice when he has commended Harry on exemplary potions.

“I thought Salazar struggled with control.”

“Salazar struggles with control for a man as powerful as he is,” Professor Snape corrects, now almost amused. “There are not many as powerful as he is.”

Slowly, Hermione nods.

“But I can learn?” she checks, because that is the most important thing at the end of the day. “What’s the best way to learn to control your magic?”

Professor Snape considers her in silence for several seconds.

“Salazar’s situation puts him in the unique position of having worked harder than anyone I have ever met for the control he has,” comes the measured response, and she isn’t sure that she hoped he _wouldn’t_ say that, but the idea certainly doesn’t enthuse her all that much; she has so much that she wants to ask of Salazar, and she doesn’t like the thought of owing so much to a man like that. “You might be best served asking him – I believe he mentioned that the two of you have been in contact?”

Surprised, Hermione blinks at her Head of House and tries to work out when the two might have got around to discussing _her_ , of all people. They must be talking quite often if she has come up.

“Yes,” she agrees, then pushes on in a rare show of foolish courage to ask the question stirring in the back of her head – or part of it, at least. “Are you and Salazar…?”

For a moment, she doesn’t know if Professor Snape is going to laugh at her or throw her out of his office and assign detention for the rest of the year. She gets the idea that he isn’t entirely sure either.

“No,” he tells her in a flat tone after some time. “Go back to the common room now, Miss Granger.”

“Yes, Professor.”

Hurriedly, she stands and sets the empty vial of Calming Draught down on his desk, ready to flee the room.

“And Miss Granger?” Professor Snape drawls when she is nearly at the door, mere seconds from relative safety; she freezes with one hand on the handle. “Given what you know of his history, do you really suppose that I might be Salazar’s… _type_?”

Hermione has the strangest suspicion that if she were to turn around right now, she might find him struggling not to laugh at her. She doesn’t dare attempt to find out.

“…No, Professor.”

Harry wakes to the blinding white of the Hospital Wing and a terrible headache. Lifting a hand to his forehead, he groans weakly and slides his palm down to cover his eyes when that does nothing to help. He feels drained, and cold, and like his back is still recovering from dragon-fire…

“Careful,” Salazar murmurs, hands nudging him gently back down when he tries to sit up. “Don’t push yourself. You’re in the Hospital Wing. Dementors invaded the Quidditch stadium.”

His voice is calm and steady and Harry knows that he’s _pissed_.

“Who’re you going to beat up?” he mumbles, because he feels awful enough that he thinks he should get a free pass for saying stupid things.

“…I think Hermione might well get there first,” Salazar allows carefully, to Harry’s surprise. “She has been rather… distraught. I believe Severus took care of her. Dudley and your other friends are worried too, of course, but they were not the ones who saw you fall at the time.”

_That can’t have been fun_ , Harry thinks.

“Did I break anything?” he asks.

“No,” Salazar replies, which is not what he expected. “Someone caught your fall. No one is quite sure who – it was all rather chaotic.”

There is a short pause, then Salazar continues.

“They are rather more concerned with trying to work out whose Patronus takes the form of a lion.”

Which explains everything. Confused, Harry frowns in his uncle’s vague direction.

“How’d you know?” he asks.

He hears Salazar sigh, then comes a faint rustle and, when the man speaks again, he is much closer, his voice lowered.

“The adjustments I made to the wards,” Salazar explains. “They alerted me the moment the dementors got close enough to affect you.”

Harry opens his eyes just to place where his uncle is and grin tiredly at the man.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “You fix everything. Can I go back to sleep now?”

He drifts off before he can hear Salazar’s reply.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math, agus ciamar a tha sibh? I hope you're all well, and I'd just like to assure you that I have already written close to two chapters since getting home (though, admittedly, I am counting finishing this one as part of that).
> 
> As ever, I'd love to hear your thoughts, opinions, constructive criticisms, etc.! I apologise in advance for how much this chapter bounces around.

When Harry wakes again, Salazar is gone, but his friends have gathered around him instead. Harry smiles at them in bleary reassurance, then realises that there are too many blobs for it to be just his closest friends here and turns his concerns to seeming _absolutely fine_ and _not at all vulnerable_ instead.

“Morning, all,” he croaks as he fumbles for his glasses and jams them onto his face, then wonders if it actually is morning.

Luckily, a quick glance around to find the windows of the Hospital Wing tells him that he got the approximate time right, at least. He doesn’t have long to celebrate the accuracy of his greeting before his glasses are knocked off by Dudley’s hand as his cousin lunges in to hug him, Hermione mirroring the action from the other side of the bed.

“Fucking _hell_ , Harry…” Dudley mutters, voice muffled somewhat by Harry’s shoulder. “Can you _not_ scare us like that?”

Someone presses Harry’s glasses back into his hand, and he wiggles his arm free of Dudley’s tight hold until he has the mobility to reach his face. With his glasses settled firmly back in place, he turns his attention to comforting both Dudley and Hermione by patting their backs soothingly.

“I’ve got to keep you on your toes, haven’t I?” he prods, ignoring the off-putting sensation of cottonmouth. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Who won the match?”

He doesn’t get a response before Madam Pomfrey bustles over to shoo his friends out of the way and check his vitals before pressing a glass of water and chocolate into his hands.

“Drink and eat,” she tells him sternly, then turns back to her office.

Water right after waking up. _Bleurgh._

“Your uncle had to leave, but he said to tell you to take care,” Terry offers quietly as Harry’s friends resettle around the bed once more.

Unconcerned, Harry nods. He remembers Salazar being here, and that’s what matters. Salazar came when Harry needed him, just like always, which is all Harry really needs to know – though perhaps it might be useful to ask Dudley or one of his close friends for a proper recount of what happened at some point.

What _he_ needs to focus on is his Occlumency and his Patronus. Salazar shouldn’t have had to come in the first place; Harry should have been able to deal with the situation by himself. On the Occlumency front, however, there is still that strange blob of _wrongness_ in his mind to deal with, and he has exhausted all the potential sources he could find in the Library, which leaves him only one potential route: to ask someone about it.

He’ll be seeing Salazar this evening, for the Wizengamot meeting. Then, he can bring it up and hopefully get an answer one way or another on whether it is something to be worried about.

It’s a simple but effective plan of action, and Harry is happy to set it to the side for the time being as he looks expectantly towards his friends.

“So who _did_ win the match?”

“Slytherin,” Draco answers promptly, clearly delighted. “230-70.”

Harry is more than willing to return the blond boy’s grin and press for further details, settling back against his pillows as Draco rambles on about the game and the thrilling chase for the snitch that ensued once the dementors had been sent away and the game restarted. If nothing else, it takes everyone else’s minds off Harry’s accident.

On meeting his uncle at the school gates with Master Snape, Harry finds himself subjected to a sharp, assessing stare, Salazar apparently more than happy to take as long as needed to check that Harry is well for himself. Only once he seems satisfied does Salazar bid Severus farewell and beckon Harry out of Hogwarts grounds, silver lion stalking over to pad along the path on Harry’s far side.

“How are you feeling?” comes the gentle prompt, some way down the hillside.

“I’m alright,” Harry assures his uncle at once. “Just wish I’d seen the rest of the match.”

Salazar’s lips twitch.

“You sound like James,” he mutters, to Harry’s surprise – but also quiet delight. “Who won?”

It’s Harry’s turn to bite back a smile at the interest in Salazar’s tone.

“Slytherin, of course.”

Salazar makes no attempt to hide his satisfaction, twirling his wand around his fingers as he nods and flicks his eyes over their surroundings.

“Good,” he replies simply, then holds out his arm for Harry to take.

“Before we go,” Harry blurts out, unwilling to put the conversation off until after the Wizengamot session in case he loses his nerve, “I need to ask you something about my mindscape – I _know_ I’m not meant to tell people about it, but I’m… I’m kind of worried about it, I guess.”

It isn’t that Salazar _wasn’t_ still and silent while listening to Harry, but there is something distinctly frozen about the man now as Harry fidgets nervously under his gaze; his eyes alone move, taking in every inch of Harry’s face before his lips part for him to speak, and Harry suddenly wonders if he should have raised his concerns far sooner. This reaction isn’t necessarily more serious than he expected, but it is definitely more immediately so.

“After the session, we’ll talk in Potter Manor,” Salazar announces firmly, fixing Harry with a piercing stare. “Unless you think it might be more urgent than that?”

The _thing_ has been in Harry’s mind for at least several months by now, without showing any signs of changing, so Harry thinks that he makes the right decision in agreeing with the original suggestion. Salazar nods, offering his arm again, and this time Harry takes it, bracing as he does so for the horrible squeeze of apparition.

For once, Salazar does not enter the Wizengamot chambers at Harry’s side, instead choosing to walk with Harry through the Ministry, face bared for the world to see him as Salazar Potter, before disappearing just as they reach the now-familiar ornate doors with a warning that Harry should be ready to take things in his stride. Harry watches him slip away and vanish into the crowd before stepping into the Wizengamot chambers alone.

It seems as though all eyes turn to him in a matter of seconds.

“Harry!” Lucius is the first to exclaim, abandoning his conversation partner with a politely apologetic smile to stride in Harry’s direction. “How wonderful to see you well.”

Belatedly, Harry realises that news of his fall must have spread through the entire Wizengamot by now.

“Thank you, Lucius,” he manages, summoning a smile. “It’s wonderful to _be_ well.”

Lucius chuckles, patting him on the shoulder and moving aside as Lady Zabini – Adelina, Harry remembers after a moment of panic – sweeps in to offer her own well-wishes. Next comes Minister Cornelius Fudge, then Lady Henrietta Parkinson, Nicolas, Lord Arthur Weasley, Lady Augusta Longbottom, Lord Kingsley Shacklebolt…

“My dear friend,” Salazar declares behind him, and Harry turns at once to greet him with a grin, “In light of the horrific failures of relevant authorities, I am delighted to see you on your feet and present.”

_Ouch_. Harry almost winces in sympathy when he spots the pinching of Fudge’s face, the thinning of Dumbledore’s lips, but the pity is overwhelmed by his own sense of savage glee.

“Thanks to some quick reactions, no permanent harm done,” he assures the gathered crowd, though his words are directed to his uncle alone. “I was lucky.”

The way Salazar nods in agreement tells Harry that he has said the right thing.

“Lucky,” Salazar repeats. “It seems… counter-productive that a supposed safety measure – introduced against the advice of many of us and your own opinions, apparently for your protection – should have attacked you twice before the year is up.”

“Counter-productive is one word for it,” Harry returns easily, rubbing over his House ring. “Disastrous might be another.”

The small sound Salazar makes is one of obvious and derisive amusement.

“Indeed,” he sighs. “One might think that such problems could be anticipated by those who claim to have their students’ best interests at heart – but no matter. I’m sure there will be time to discuss this further during the session.”

Harry checks the time quickly.

“Shall we take our seats?” he suggests, happy to lead Salazar away from Nicolas’s bitten-back smile and Lord Shacklebolt’s frown of consideration.

When the assembled Wizengamot votes to overrule the decision made to send dementors to Hogwarts in a landslide, Harry doesn’t think anyone can be at all surprised. The rest of the session is comparatively dull; there is abnormally little ongoing within the political sphere at the moment that needs dealing with, though Harry is quietly interested to see Lord Shacklebolt join Lady Longbottom at the fringes of the unofficial Grey seating.

At the end of the session, Harry finds himself making polite conversation with Lord Weasley while, in the corner of his eye, Salazar engages Lord Shacklebolt in a rigorous discussion of some kind or another. Luckily, it isn’t too long before Salazar turns in Harry’s direction and Lord Shacklebolt strikes up a new line of dialogue with a Lord whose name Harry has quite honestly forgotten, leaving Harry free to wrap up his chat with Lord Weasley and join his uncle in heading for the exit.

“Back to Potter Manor?” he checks quietly as they make their way through the Ministry.

“Indeed,” Salazar confirms. “Through the Floo, I think.”

Through the Floo they go, Harry starting to feel a little antsy as he prepares himself for what is to come. It becomes apparent quite soon, however, that Salazar doesn’t intend to do more than ask Harry about the issue at hand and scribble down a few notes, brow creasing as he does so, while Harry does his best to explain the situation and answer each and every one of his uncle’s questions.

“I’ll look into it,” he promises when Harry has answered every question to a satisfactory level of detail.

If nothing else, that reassures Harry that he isn’t kicking up a fuss over something normal. Unfortunately, the fact that even Salazar doesn’t know what the problem might be negates any positive impact that the first assurance might have provided.

“If there is nothing to be found,” Salazar adds, tapping his pencil lightly against his lips, “Then I’d like to take a look when you come home for Yule, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Harry is all too happy to agree to that. Knowing that Salazar is on the case is a weight off his shoulders, removing a tension that he had honestly become used to over the last few months.

“Take care at Hogwarts,” Salazar tells him before he takes the Floo back to Master Snape’s office. “If anything at all seems strange to you, do not hesitate to contact me.”

Nodding quickly, Harry leans in for a hug then turns to take a handful of powder.

“And do keep an eye on Remus Lupin,” is the last thing Salazar tells him. “He saw my Patronus the other week.”

The implications of that don’t sink in until Harry has stumbled out of the Floo in Master Snape’s office and regained his balance with some kind assistance from the corner of Master Snape’s desk. If Professor Lupin saw Salazar’s Patronus when he walked Harry through the grounds the other week for a Wizengamot session, then there is a definite chance that he could have recognised Salazar’s Patronus yesterday. If, then, he has made the right connections, he could well know that Salazar has ways of getting onto Hogwarts grounds.

That could make a lot of things very awkward.

If Professor Lupin _has_ made any connections between Salazar and Saturday’s incident, then Harry sees very little evidence for it. Perhaps the Defence professor is looking in his direction more often, but that could just as easily be his imagination at work, filling in what it expects to see; there is nothing clear and obvious to go off at all.

Within a week, Harry’s attention is elsewhere anyway. He is just about starting to ease into a regular schedule, but of course life doesn’t just settle down – not that he’d have it any other way, because this time the disruption comes in the form of being Roger’s first choice seeker for the Hufflepuff match.

“Your style is better suited for the game we expect Hufflepuff to play,” Roger explains quietly at the end of training, the week before the match itself, while Harry tries to walk the line between eager and frantic. “You know what to expect from a matchday now, and you’ll have Cho with you this time – just focus on doing what you do best, and I have full confidence in you, alright?”

Tongue seemingly stuck in his throat, Harry can only nod. Roger’s right – this isn’t the first game he has played for Ravenclaw. It _is_ , however, the first time he has ever been chosen over Cho. Roger has made a decision to put his faith in Harry for this game, and Harry intends to prove him right.

“Well done, Harry,” is Salazar’s response when Harry, now buzzing with excitement for the week to come, announces this development on Sunday; the proud smile Harry receives means more than he could possibly say. “That’s brilliant – I’ll take it you’re looking forward to the match?”

Bouncing slightly on his toes, Harry nods happily.

“He chose me!” he declares. “Roger _chose_ me.”

“He did,” Salazar agrees. “Because you worked hard, you’ve got skill, and you deserve this. Enjoy it, yes?”

Well, Harry can hardly say no to _that_.

“I will,” he promises – and he does.

The week flies by before Harry’s eyes, and for once it isn’t a dreaded consequence of deadlines and stress and constant, overwhelming knowledge that he has so much to get _perfect_ and not enough skill to manage it. The knowledge that this performance could have ramifications beyond Quidditch – could reach the entire school and maybe beyond – is for once second to the anticipation of the match itself, and Harry says as much to Master Snape.

“The absence of dementors will have that effect,” the man remarks dryly, arching an eyebrow, but Harry has spent enough time with him to see the small, pleased smile beneath the immediate response.

It’s touching to know that Master Snape is happy for him.

“You’re coping with this much better than Draco did last week,” Hermione remarks on Saturday morning, having slipped in among Harry’s housemates to spend breakfast next to him.

“Draco lost his first game,” Harry points out, to which she shrugs.

“I suppose,” she allows, picking up a slice of toast to nibble from it. “Fred and George want to meet up this evening, by the way – if you can drag yourself away from ‘post-match’.”

The quotation marks are audible in the way her tone twists dubiously, her nose scrunching a bit at the phrase, and Harry bites back a grin.

“As long as I know time and place, I’ll be there,” he assures her.

“Good,” she tells him simply, “Because when I left them, they were planning your forfeit if you didn’t make it. We’ll meet in the Entrance Hall after dinner.”

Snorting, Harry nods his agreement then turns back to breakfast.

The game itself is a success. Harry honestly doesn’t remember much of it – but then, there isn’t much to remember, because it is five minutes in that he spots the snitch and dives. The Hufflepuff Seeker – Diggory, Cho’s partner – has an _incredible_ reaction time and, for a second, Harry even worries that he’ll be beaten, particularly given the other player’s longer arms, but his small frame plays to his advantage when the snitch makes a particularly tight turn that Diggory overshoots just slightly.

By the time his opponent has recovered, Harry has already seized hold of their prize, lifting it triumphantly skyward for all to see.

“ _Yes_ , Harry!” Roger roars across the pitch, shooting over to bundle Harry into a tight embrace and lifting him clean off his broom; laughing, Harry hooks his ankle quickly around the handle to keep it in place and endures the hair-ruffling and solid slaps to his back from the rest of the team.

_Merlin_ , does he love sport.

“It’s the Ravenclaw protégé!” Weasley Twin 1 declares as soon as Harry arrives at their meeting place, sweeping into a low bow.

“Davies’ adopted son!” Twin 2 enthuses, copying the earlier actions of Harry’s teammates in ruffling his hair vigorously. “Well played –”

“– and well won,” Twin 1 finishes, already drawing out the Marauder’s Map with a flourish. “Now, down to business. We have plans to make, you see –”

“Schemes to devise –”

“Plots to hatch?” Dudley suggests.

“Machinations to conspire,” Neville tags on quietly, and Harry catches sight of Hermione’s bitten off smile.

“Ah, they grow up so _fast_ , George,” Twin 2 sniffs.

“Tragic, Fred,” Twin 1 chokes out. “To think they were once so _naïve_ …”

“Soon, they won’t _need_ our tutelage!” Twin 2 wails; Harry settles in with a small grin to wait until they’re done.

Draco, apparently, isn’t quite so patient.

“Back to the plans, schemes, machinations, plots, conspiracies, whatever you want to call them?” he prompts, raising one eyebrow in pointed expectation. “We have no time to waste if we want to achieve perfection, surely – when is this for?”

“Last week of term,” Twin 1 answers at once. “We’re going to get as many of the professors as possible. Er… Including Snape.”

Twin 2 glances apologetically in Harry’s direction.

“As long as you’re not targeting him specifically,” Harry shrugs.

“Course not,” Twin 1 agrees at once. “Nah, he’s taught us too much for that, even if he is a dick.”

“George!” Twin 2 reprimands, even as Harry fights the urge to bristle. “Not in front of the protégés!”

“My sincerest apologies,” Twin 1 tells them all, dropping into his second low bow of the evening. “Regardless… The Map.”

The next hour, of course, is spent in fierce debate as they argue over mechanisms, enchantments, positionings, timings, outcomes, alibis… Ideas are produced and discarded in mere minutes, other seemingly sensible plans picked ruthlessly to pieces, everything scrutinised over and over until they can finally be satisfied with that particular aspect – at least for the time being. On and on it goes, Harry throwing everything he can into the process and losing himself in the friendly arguments that spring up constantly until he realises that he should probably check the time and make sure that they’re not about to miss curfew and risk discipline. He can’t afford to be seen to get into trouble, or to foster any kind of resentment towards him by losing points, after all.

A quick glance at his watch assures him that they have plenty of time to spare, but it is as he is turning his eyes back to Twin 2, who is in the process of tearing apart one of his own suggestions before anyone gets a chance to do it for him, that Harry finds his attention caught by a part of the map he has never looked at before – and a name, sitting innocently in place as though it belongs there.

_Peter Pettigrew_.

Scrubbing at his eyes, he blinks several times but, when he looks again, the name is still there. It is sitting in what looks to be the Third-Year Gryffindor dormitories, he notes – and both Seamus and Dean are there right now as well, but neither seem concerned about their company, dead or otherwise.

Surely, Harry has to be imagining something, or misreading it – but there are no Gryffindors in his year with a name anything like that.

“Hermione,” he whispers, leaning in towards his friend. “Gryffindor Tower. Third-Year dorms.”

She glances at him, frowning, then peers over at the location in question, stiffening almost at once.

“What the _fuck_ …?” she breathes, which might well be the first time he has heard her swear – but it’s good to know that he isn’t seeing things.

Glancing around at the rest of the group, she sits back and offers him a shallow nod, mouthing his uncle’s name to him. Hesitantly, he returns the nod, and they return their attention to the conversation in unspoken, mutual agreement. Neither of them will be mentioning this to the rest of their company right at the moment; best to talk to Salazar about it first and work out what could possibly be going on.

Salazar will know what to do.

For the rest of the evening, Harry can’t concentrate on the discussion. Luckily, no one seems to expect too much from him given the match earlier today, short though it was, and it doesn’t take that long for the planning session to wrap itself up for the day.

“We’ll have a long think then reconvene in a week,” Twin 2 announces, nodding at them all. “If you have any ideas in the meantime, go ahead and talk them through with each other, but _don’t_ write them down.”

Muttering his agreement alongside his friends, Harry catches Hermione’s eye again and turns for the door. She must get the message, because she falls into hurried step beside him halfway down the corridor, neither of them speaking until they are sure that they have left everyone else far behind them.

“Are we going to Professor Snape?” Hermione asks him finally, tone still hushed.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “Given the time, I’d rather talk to Salazar in Master Snape’s office.”

“Sounds sensible,” she agrees easily.

Master Snape is understandably surprised to see them both, but he steps aside to let them in as soon as Harry explains that they want to talk to Salazar together without the risk of being caught out by curfew.

“Sit down, and I’ll fire-call him,” the Potions Master promises, waving them both to seats then heading for the fireplace.

Nervous, Harry lowers himself into one of the indicated chairs and tries to settle, but he can’t keep his knee from bouncing, and Hermione looks no calmer than he feels, her teeth dug into her lower lip as her fingers twist. It could be some kind of mistake in the Map – maybe even a joke from the map’s creators – but something about it just doesn’t feel right, and it isn’t the sort of thing that Harry wants to outright brush aside. Assuming the _best_ is a very dangerous habit to get into, after all.

“Salazar will be along in a bit,” Master Snape announces, rising from the floor and brushing off the front of his robes. “Can it wait a few minutes, or…?”

Harry glances at Hermione, who shrugs. They’ve already waited an hour or so, he supposes, and the strange name didn’t move once during that time – at least, not more than a few millimetres on the map, which probably translates to a metre, or thereabouts.

“I think so…?” Harry ventures carefully. “We’re not even sure if it _is_ a problem. We just…”

“We don’t know what to make of it,” Hermione fills in for him. “It’s… Well.”

Master Snape raises an eyebrow.

“I see.”

Silence drifts through the office for several beats, then Master Snape sighs and takes a seat.

“Shall we test your Occlumency in the meantime, Harry?” he suggests and, when Harry nods, settles his fingers lightly on his wand where it rests on the table. “ _Legilimens._ ”

Harry draws in a sharp breath when he feels the probe, then immediately turns his focus to calming his breathing to an even rhythm, drawing as much of his mental attention to the task as he can. He wants to be as blank as possible, smooth and without a hint of purchase, like a great white wall – visible but without distinguishing features to show any weakness or endpoints.

“Good,” Master Snape announces, “But don’t forget the noise aspects that you’ve been introducing.”

_Oh. Yeah._

Sheepish, Harry lifts a hand to the back of his neck as he nods.

“The visual element is coming along very well, however,” Master Snape adds. “Tell me about your progress with the Patronus Charm – and you as well, Miss Granger.”

Harry flicks his gaze quickly to Hermione, just to check if she wants to speak first, then opens his mouth when she waves him on.

“I can get wisps every time, now,” he offers. “They’re definitely getting stronger, too. I think I’m close – I just haven’t found quite the right memory for it.”

Nodding in consideration, Master Snape curls his fingers around his jaw and turns his attention to Hermione.

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione hesitates, then lifts one shoulder carefully.

“I’m about the same as Harry, I think,” she admits. “Sometimes, I think I’m _there_ – but it’s not quite enough.”

Master Snape appears to think on that for a moment before nodding again.

“Perhaps if there were someone who could teach you Occlumency, it might give you the extra mental refinement to grasp the spell,” he murmurs and, to Harry’s surprise, Hermione shifts as if discomforted – or perhaps just nervous.

He’ll have to ask her what that’s about later. For now, however, the fireplace is flaring with green and, somewhere between one moment and the next, Harry’s uncle steps out, looking abnormally underdressed in a simple vest, shorts, and, of all things, _flip flops_.

“Harry, Hermione,” Salazar greets, while Harry struggles to cope with the sight before him, “Severus.”

“We meet again,” Master Snape returns dryly, and Salazar’s lips twitch up. “Dear Merlin, what _are_ you wearing?”

Salazar looks down at himself.

“One cannot simply stand by when one’s pride is challenged,” he offers, as if that explains anything; Master Snape arches an unimpressed eyebrow. “Quirinus did not believe that I could comfortably wear non-magical summer fashion without warming charms in December.”

“You’re wearing this for a bet,” Master Snape fills in, incredulous.

Salazar frowns, apparently offended.

“I do not gamble. This is merely providing evidence to substantiate my perspective in a debate.”

Master Snape sighs, lifting long fingers to nurse at his temples.

“Harry, please… deal with your uncle,” he requests. “I have marking to attend to.”

At once, Salazar turns in Harry’s direction, twirling his wand in his fingers as he tilts his head expectantly – and Harry hadn’t noticed exactly how long his uncle’s hair has become, but without robes to disguise where it ends, it is suddenly much clearer to see that it falls someway down his neck already. Suddenly, Harry is struck by how _different_ Salazar looks to the appearance that Harry has become accustomed to over the last few years.

That, however, is irrelevant.

“You know that map I told you about?” he starts. “The Marauder’s Map?”

The way Salazar blinks at him, seeming almost on the verge of taking a step back, has Harry wondering what he said wrong at once.

“The Marauders?” Master Snape echoes quietly, head snapping up from his marking. “Where did you hear that name?”

Uncertain, Harry looks to Hermione to see if she has any idea what the problem might be.

“…It’s the name of the map?” she offers. “We don’t know about any marauders, as such. It’s just a map that tells you where everyone is in –”

“Ah, that map,” Salazar fills in, nodding, and shares a glance of his own with Master Snape. “We can discuss the name of it and the potential identity of its creators later. What is the problem?”

Slightly perturbed, Harry shakes his head to refocus himself on the issue at hand.

“There’s a name on it that I – we – don’t think should be there,” he explains carefully. “In the Gryffindor dormitories – we saw it today. And we don’t know if it’s a mistake, or a joke, or…”

“It might help to know the name,” Salazar suggests lightly, offering a gentle smile, and Harry nods awkwardly, turning to Hermione yet again for help.

“Peter Pettigrew,” she tells the adults, voice barely rising above a whisper, and Salazar stiffens at once.

“Peter Pettigrew,” Master Snape repeats. “Your father’s dead friend?”

“Moving – just a bit – in the Gryffindor dormitories,” Harry confirms, focusing on his master’s face to avoid seeing how quickly Salazar is paling.

The moment Salazar starts muttering to himself in a language that Harry doesn’t understand and doesn’t need to in order to hear the agitation in his uncle’s voice, it becomes horribly clear that the situation is _bad_. Master Snape, too, looks almost frighteningly affected by the news.

At Harry’s side, Hermione squirms uncomfortably then shifts a little closer to him in her chair. Harry hesitates for just a moment before mirroring the action.

“I’ll be back in a few seconds,” Salazar mutters, then comes the faint crack of apparition, the office utterly silent once the noise fades.

Nervous, Harry lifts his thumb to chew on the knuckle and twists his ankles around the chair legs while he waits for his uncle to return. He has the most terrible suspicion that Salazar and Master Snape are seeing consequences of this news that Harry hasn’t yet bothered to start considering, beyond the strange realisation that one of his father’s friends might actually be alive when he has been rather famously considered dead for the last twelve years, killed at the hands of Sirius Black.

A strange inkling rises in the back of Harry’s mind, but he can’t quite put his finger on the problem – at least, not before Salazar reappears and launches immediately into speech.

“ _It’s him. I remember his magical aura from when he was younger – he used to visit during the holidays, so I’ve met him often enough to commit that sort of thing to memory. I can use the wards to look for specific auras if I know them well enough, and he’s there – and the wards are used to him; he’s been here a long time, though perhaps not continuously. To fool the wards would be nigh on impossible_.”

Drawing in a deep breath, Salazar clenches his hand around his wand and continues, seeming to rattle off thoughts as they spring into his head – and with each new idea, his mind seems to accelerate before Harry’s very eyes, his fingers twitching as if to trace links that only he can see.

“ _Sirius Black did not kill Peter Pettigrew. Peter Pettigrew did not tell anyone that he was alive for twelve years. Somehow, for some reason, Peter Pettigrew faked his death. Sirius Black was convicted of a crime that he did not commit – but how? Surely, the lack of evidence would have come out at the trial –_ _I need to see the trial records_.”

With another crack, he is gone, and it is only then that Harry sees the utter confusion painted across the faces of both Hermione and Master Snape, and it registers that Salazar was speaking in Parseltongue the entire time.

“He’s going to look at the records for Sirius Black’s trial,” he explains hesitantly, and Master Snape’s gaze fixes on him at once.

“He’s what?” the man demands, low and entirely serious; Harry swallows beneath the intensity of the stare.

“He wants to see how no one noticed the lack of evidence that Black killed Pettigrew,” he elaborates, “So he’s going to find the trial records. Well, going to request that someone gives them to him, I guess.”

“I see,” Master Snape murmurs, lips twisting with unreadable emotion. “I think it best that the two of you retire for the night. Either Salazar or myself will provide appropriate updates on the situation when we have them.”

That, Harry thinks, is the best he can ask for.

“Sir?” Hermione asks as they stand in unison. “Who _are_ – or were – the Marauders?”

Harry had honestly already forgotten about that, but now he turns to wait in interest for what Master Snape has to say on the matter.

“‘The Marauders’,” Master Snape begins slowly, dark eyes flickering briefly in Harry’s direction before returning to Hermione, “Was the name used by Harry’s father and his friends to refer to themselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I'm getting somewhat concerned by the amount of people sacrificing sleep/binge-reading this, I'm going to start leaving the occasional message at the end of chapters for those who are reading this at night in several weeks' time:
> 
> PLEASE GET SOME SLEEP.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halò, agus ciamar a tha sibh? As ever, I hope you are well. At any rate, I have a new chapter for you all - _surprise, surprise..._ \- and I'd love to hear what you think of it.

As expected, Fudge is in his office when Salazar arrives. The man’s secretary – Honey, an absolutely lovely person with just enough of a sharp edge that Salazar thinks they might stand a chance in politics – rolls their eyes and waves him in with a hint of an amusedly knowing smirk, and Salazar inclines his head in thanks, breezing straight past to slip into Fudge’s office and raise an eyebrow at the Minister for Magic himself.

“Good evening, Cornelius,” he greets smoothly, letting the door swing close. “Overworking yourself as usual?”

Fudge grimaces, setting down his quill with a huff and lifting ink-stained fingers to fiddle with his hat instead.

“This Sirius Black business,” he mutters. “Awful, simply awful – but never mind that. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It was rather on my mind that you would be here, all alone, working yourself unacceptably hard…” Salazar smiles, stepping forward to settle himself on the edge of Fudge’s desk and settling one leg over the other. “I certainly wasn’t about to leave you to it.”

“No,” Fudge mutters, eyes already roaming. “No, of course not.”

Ten minutes later, pressed up against the wall with one pudgy hand creeping its way steadily into his robes, Salazar draws back from Fudge just long enough to voice, somewhat breathlessly, his request.

“Is there any chance, Cornelius –” He turns his head away just slightly as Fudge leans in. “It has occurred to me lately that I’ve never had a chance to see how the man who betrayed my brother was brought to justice. To see the trial records would be…”

“Yes, of course,” Fudge agrees distractedly. “I’ll get you a pass to look through the records.”

Resigned to the fact that he won’t get that pass for at least twenty minutes yet – maybe a bit less if he works to hurry this up – Salazar forces himself to relax into the older man’s hold once more. This has waited twelve years; it can wait the short length of time that Fudge’s appetite demands.

By midnight, Salazar almost wishes that he had insisted on getting the pass there and then – both because he would feel a lot better in himself at the moment, and because the startlingly horrific level of miscarriage of justice that is starting to make itself known to him does not seem the sort of thing to leave waiting even for half an hour of the fumblings necessary to maintain Fudge’s favour.

The trial records have given him nothing because _there are no trial records_. Further, the records for the courts make it abundantly clear that this is not simply a clerical error; there is no mention of any trial scheduled in at all for Sirius Black, and Salazar no longer knows what to think.

When he returned to modern times, he was dazed and confused, grief-stricken by the realisation that he had lost Godric, Helga and Rowena and the news that his blood family were all dead. He accepted the facts as they were presented to him, felt the pang of loss at the idea that Sirius, James’s best friend, might really have turned traitor and brought about the death of Salazar’s twin – and then moved on with life, with looking after Harry, with setting everything up as well as he could to give his new charge the best start in the magical world possible.

Perhaps he moved on too quickly.

Whatever the case, he will not get those answers in the Ministry, never mind that staying here too long is practically asking for Fudge to seek him out down here, so he returns to Potter Manor and Quirinus without another thought, already turning his attention to how he can solve the mystery now presented to him.

“I need to find someone who can give an actual account of what happened,” he tells Quirinus. “Someone who can confirm or deny everything on public record as fact.”

“Everything?” Quirinus asks.

“As pertains to this issue,” Salazar corrects himself, decidedly unimpressed by his companion’s pedantism. “If this is wrong, who can say what else is wrong besides someone who was actually involved?”

“You need either Sirius Black or Peter Pettigrew,” Quirinus fills in for him. “Or both.”

“Or both,” Salazar mutters. “ _Fuck_.”

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he lifts his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“And now we are back to our problem of not knowing where Black is,” he continues through gritted teeth. “Pettigrew, it seems, will stay where he is for the time being. I am not overly concerned about him – though perhaps I will attempt to secure him before the Winter Break. That seems the safest option.”

Quirinus hums in soft consideration.

“Sirius Black, for whatever reason, has already entered Hogwarts once, has he not?”

Frowning, Salazar nods a confirmation and watches Quirinus drop into an armchair, the other man stretching both legs out and crossing one over the other as his hand lifts to stroke at his chin.

“And, regardless of motivation, we expect him to try again at some point,” Quirinus continues, looking to Salazar for another nod. “If you can pinpoint Pettigrew with the wards, why not do the same with Black?”

Salazar stares at him in silence, struggling for words.

“Or is that a silly question?”

_Fuck. Oh…_ Fuck.

“No such thing as a silly question,” Salazar counters distractedly, feeling his nails dig into his palms as he clenches his hands into tight fists. “And if there were… _That_ would not be one. I am such a fucking –”

Cutting himself off, he turns away to draw in a deep breath of composure.

“There is absolutely no reason why I cannot do that,” he bites out, “Besides that it did not occur to me to do so.”

It will, admittedly, be closer to the ward rearrangement that he set up for Harry than the quick search for Pettigrew – though certainly a lot less complicated than the former; a semi-intelligent monitoring system designed to notify him of any immediate danger is somewhat more difficult than the ward equivalent of a magical tripwire.

“Then the next time Black comes to Hogwarts, you could know and find him?” Quirinus checks, continuing when Salazar nods, “And not attempt to kill him?”

Grimacing, Salazar weighs up the prospect. Yes, he is no longer sure if Sirius Black is responsible for James’s death, but he has spent years until this point believing everything that he has heard about the man whole-heartedly. There is a lot of emotion inherent in that kind of deep-seated acceptance of a story, and it cannot simply be scrubbed away the moment a new theory is uncovered.

“If I were to stand face-to-face with him? I am not sure,” he admits. “Are you volunteering to meet with him in my place?”

“Of course,” Quirinus replies simply. “I’d also suggest keeping your name out of it for the time being – I’ll go as a member of House Slytherin, not as a friend of the man he knows as Salazar Potter.”

Blinking, Salazar nods – both in acceptance of the plan and in gratitude for Quirinus’s separation of Salazar’s identity from that particular name.

“I’ll set it up tomorrow,” he announces aloud. “In the meantime, I should likely visit Vernon and Petunia to remind them that I am not dead and that entering my office remains an unwise idea. I’d rather like to maintain an area in that house free of the influence of the prejudiced.”

“Nothing to do with the fact that the MACUSA floorplans are in your desk drawer over there,” Quirinus comments, dry as anything.

“Nothing at all,” Salazar agrees calmly.

Petunia and Vernon Dursley are quite clearly less than pleased by Salazar’s return to their residence, and Salazar does not hesitate to keep a wary eye on them as he steps inside, fingers resting over his wand in silent warning; he might not need a wand to fight them, but the visual reminder of his power is of greater importance than true practicality here.

“Thought you were staying away,” Vernon grunts out once the door is closed, looking for all the world like he would rather stick his hand into a fire than talk to Salazar.

“Where it has been more practical to do so,” Salazar agrees levelly, inclining his head. “However, this is my home, is it not?”

Vernon seems to bite back some undoubtedly harsh words, and Petunia steps in for her husband.

“Have you eaten this evening?” she asks, tone a good deal more pleasant. “We have some of our own dinner left over if not.”

“If you would be so kind as to share it with me, I would be most grateful,” Salazar tells her.

Lips twisting in obvious displeasure, Vernon steps aside to let Petunia lead the way into the kitchen, Salazar happy to sweep past him without another word. As it happens, he truly has not eaten; neither has he showered, for that matter, having been too caught up in his discoveries, and although cleaning charms serve their purpose in a physical sense, they do little to rid Salazar of the sensation of something less than pleasant crawling over his skin.

Dear Merlin, the sooner Fudge becomes unnecessary, the better.

Vernon does not join Salazar and Petunia in the kitchen, instead choosing to escape to the living room, and a great degree of tension seems to seep from the air once he is gone, leaving Salazar to relax as Petunia turns to eye him with a great deal more speculation.

“You look… better,” she observes warily.

“I feel it,” he agrees, setting his wand – the visible one, at least – on the table a good foot away from him as a non-verbal sign that there will be no further hostilities from him.

At once, she blows out a quiet breath.

“Dudley said something about Harry having an accident,” she mentions as she turns her attention to finding the leftovers. “Is he…?”

“He is fine,” Salazar assures her. “The dementors broke the rules of their contract, and he happened to be in a precarious position at the time. The wards of the school alerted me to the danger in good enough time to arrive and slow his fall.”

“You saved him,” Petunia surmises. “You do that an awful lot.”

“What sort of guardian would I be if I didn’t?” Salazar counters at once. “He has a tendency to attract trouble, I find.”

“He does,” Petunia murmurs and, for a brief moment, silent understanding passes between them.

They may have their significant differences, but they share a deep concern for the safety of both Harry and Dudley, and there is no harm in acknowledging that.

“Do you ever worry that you might not be around to help him one day?” she asks as she retrieves the remainders of hers and Vernon’s meal and slips out her wand to warm it up.

“Regularly,” Salazar tells her honestly. “Though sometimes… I wonder if, in a non-fatal situation, it might do him some good to deal with it alone – to realise that I am not all-powerful, and that I might not always be capable of protecting him.”

Petunia’s head snaps in his direction at once.

“He thinks that at the moment?” she demands. “Why haven’t you stopped –”

“If I knew how to stop it, I _would_ ,” he bites out, quietly indignant. “Playing _God_ to my own nephew is not on my list of priorities, Petunia. I’m trying to provide him with a happy childhood while simultaneously preparing for the worst, and it is… a difficult combination to balance.”

Slowly, her chin lifts in acknowledgement, then lowers once more in hesitant understanding.

“And is Dudley well?” she asks instead of pressing the point. “His letters are often brief, these days.”

“He is,” Salazar confirms. “I imagine he would be happier to communicate if he did not feel as though he has to choose between Harry – and by extension myself – and you.”

Her lips press together for a moment, then she drops her eyes and pushes the dish of food towards him. He accepts it with a silent nod of thanks, taking a moment to examine the remnants of her spell-work before offering another inclination of his head.

“Your warming charms are improving,” he observes, watching her lips twitch up in a repressed hint of a smile.

“That… book you showed me,” she admits tersely. “It helped.”

Pleased, Salazar accepts the response for what it is and turns his attention to the food itself. She does not need to know that he checks it over for anything that might cause harm; she would likely take it as a slight against her, though in reality it is a habit that he has held onto for many years.

For some time, they sit in silence, Petunia apparently happy to watch him eat as she fiddles with her wand. Salazar keeps half an eye on its tip all the while, just in case, but he does not expect any sort of attack and, in the end, none comes.

“That man you spend so much of your time with,” she starts instead, breaking the quiet that has fallen. “Are the two of you…?”

“Quirinus is a friend,” Salazar tells her, cutting that idea off at once. “I am perfectly capable of living with a man without having romantic inclinations towards him – though perhaps living with close friends is more common in the magical community?”

She hesitates.

“After a certain age, yes,” she allows. “At least, it isn’t common in the non-magical community.”

Taking a moment to consider the idea, Salazar sets his fork down.

“I had wondered,” he admits. “Yes, Quirinus is a very dear friend; we have grown to trust each other in short time, I suppose, but certain situations do lend themselves towards that sort of development.”

Slowly, she nods.

“That will comfort Vernon somewhat,” she offers carefully. “He has been concerned about that, and about –” her lips twist briefly, “– Snape.”

Taken aback, Salazar blinks at her. Was it not only the other day that Severus mentioned young Hermione asking a similar question? Is that really the impression they give others?

“Severus…” he pauses, shaking his head. “Severus is perhaps like a –”

He falters, well aware that he had been about to say ‘brother’. As much as it is the truth, he does not feel ready to admit that aloud, and certainly not to the sister of James’s wife.

“Like Quirinus, my being close to Severus does not necessitate any romantic inclination,” he settles for. “As far as I am aware, Severus has never shown an inkling of attraction to another man, regardless.”

Regardless, Salazar suspects that they are both too similar in some aspects and too different in others to ever be compatible in that respect, and he does not intend to find out.

“I see,” Petunia mutters, apparently somewhat embarrassed but relieved all the same. “Well.”

“I suppose I need not concern myself with Vernon’s peace of mind with regards to my dating life, then?” Salazar asks her dryly. “Or would he prefer that I seek his approval before involving myself with anyone?”

Visibly uncomfortable, she avoids his gaze. Salazar returns his attention to his meal, content to let her stew while he eats. She may be far more enjoyable company than her husband, but that does not mean that he cannot appreciate her disquiet on occasion.

The next morning, Salazar slips out early and apparates directly into Hogwarts grounds, destination set for as close to the anchor that he worked most directly with as he dares. In reality, any of the anchors could be used for this, given how much of these wards are of his creation, but this one will be the most effective.

Lowering himself to his knees in front of the looming stone, he locates the familiar entry arrays and settles his hands in place, delving into the wards without hesitation. In an instant, each and every strand of magic is set before him, the weavings clear before his mind’s eye, and he sets about unpicking the sections he needs, careful not to let any of it slip from his grasp when it is not tethered by the anchor; he cannot afford to let any of this structure fall apart.

With nimble movements, he re-wraps the trace system, tying in his recollection of Sirius Black’s aura and searching through until Hogwarts presents him with what can only be the aura of Sirius Black from the man’s last visit to the castle. _That_ is exactly what he needs – very few things can change the predictable course of an aura’s development with a person’s age, but long-term exposure to dementors is one of them, and Salazar is not about to leave that sort of variation to chance.

Sirius Black will not be slipping through his fingers because he chose to _approximate_ the man’s aura.

It is only as he is setting everything into place that he remembers his ward extension over Hogsmeade and bites back a curse. It would have been far more efficient to apply the tracing system over the entire network at once but, if he wanted to do that now, he would have to unravel all of his previous work and start again from scratch, which would only be worse. No, best to finish this and then weave the expansion for Hogsmeade separately. The arithmancy will not take long and, now that he has set the initial connection in place, the rest can be done well away from Hogwarts, where there is no chance of being caught on a map that may well, it seems, be a creation of his brother’s.

In fact, Salazar reflects as he finishes his work and withdraws from the anchor, doing such work at Potter Manor might provide a convenient opportunity to tie Quirinus into the system as well; it will be much less bothersome if Quirinus does not have to learn the location via Legilimency and then hope that Sirius Black does not move in the time taken by both the information transfer and the travel.

With a sigh, Salazar stands and brushes himself off, ignoring the slide of sweat down his back with the shift; ward reconfiguration of this sort may not be the most mentally taxing activity, but there is a large degree of magical exertion to contend with, and that often expresses itself physically with this sort of thing. A quick assessment assures him that, at least, he has more than enough left in him to return to Potter Manor and complete this work before he starts to feel at all unstable.

“Mar sin leat, a charaid,” he tells Hogwarts, a fond farewell before he steps and twists into the foyer of Potter Manor to be greeted by Quirinus.

“Is it all done, then?”

Shaking his head, Salazar summons himself a glass of water and takes a sip before explaining himself.

“I have the system set up over the castle and the grounds, but I would like to extend it over Hogsmeade, and I suspect that connecting you to the same flow of information as I have access to will also be beneficial – perhaps it would even work better if I were to leave the Hogsmeade extension until after you are linked…”

Considering the idea, he nods.

“Yes,” he declares, confident that there will be a far smoother integration to work through if Quirinus is set up prior to Hogsmeade. “You first, if you would like, and then Hogsmeade.”

Quirinus only tilts his head expectantly.

“What do I need to do?” he asks. “Or can I just sit and look pretty?”

Amused, Salazar waves him through the manor to the sitting room and points at one of the armchairs within, waiting until Quirinus has settled himself to kneel in front of the other man.

“At least I can confirm that Fudge’s taste isn’t unsalvageable,” Quirinus observes, biting back laughter as Salazar shoots him a falsely-irritated glare. “Apologies, Salazar. No more talk of Fudge outside of business.”

“I should hope not,” Salazar returns. “Keep that up, and I might start to believe you experience sexual attraction.”

“The horror,” Quirinus deadpans. “An appreciation of aesthetics is far more from synonymous with sexual interest, as I’m _sure_ you know.”

“As is mocking one’s undeserving friends, it would seem,” Salazar sighs, taking a moment to recentre himself before reaching out, palms up. “Your hands, please.”

Tying Quirinus in takes but ten minutes – and most of that is spent on not overwhelming the other man with an influx of information, however focused this particular aspect of the warding system might be.

“That is… new,” Quirinus comments once the process is completed. “It is not so much the knowledge that there is something there, because I _know_ that Black is not there – but perhaps the knowledge that there _could_ be something there, and that I would know if there were?”

Salazar takes a moment to consider the description, then nods his agreement, slipping his hands from Quirinus’s to focus his attention on the Hogsmeade extension. This will take a little thinking and a few calculations, preferably on parchment; he summons a pencil and sets to work, sketching out the necessary modifications. If he had set up a proper warding system over Hogsmeade, this would not have required any arithmancy, but then, as with the Hogwarts wards, he would have been required to make a trip to the anchor he set up. With this skeletal structure, he needs to be a lot more exact in where he places what to ensure that nothing comes crumbling down, rather than relying on his own instinct – and, admittedly, the intelligence that Hogwarts has gained over many centuries – to guide everything into place.

Still, as he expected, it does not take long to find the figures he needs, and then it is easy to tug on the right part of his overall connection to the Hogwarts wards and feel his way along the resulting line of tension to the Hogsmeade extension. There, it is a simple matter of adjusting the arrangements in line with his calculations and linking back to his earlier work on the main ward set.

“I can feel that,” Quirinus mutters, audibly disconcerted. “That’s… very strange.”

Distracted, Salazar hums his acknowledgement and takes a moment to breathe before continuing with his work. Perhaps this would have been better done in Hogsmeade, and he could have gone through the added complications of introducing Quirinus to the system after some rest, because working these reconfigurations across half the country is not the most sensible thing he has ever attempted.

“ _There_ ,” he pants out finally, and only realises that the magic of the connection had been holding him up when it releases, and he slumps straight into Quirinus’s knees.

Quirinus, luckily, does not seem to notice the rather obvious lapse in composure.

“Salazar!” he hisses out instead. “Can you _feel_ that?”

Wearily, Salazar forces himself to concentrate on the connection itself.

“Ah,” he manages. “Yes. Fuck.”

“Are you high on magic or just tired?” Quirinus asks, momentarily amused, then huffs out a breath. “Well, I suppose I’m making a trip up to Scotland, then, aren’t I? What’s this meant to be – just talking to him as your proxy, finding out his side of the story…?”

Lifting a limp hand to scrub at his eyes, Salazar nods. If he had done this in Godric’s company, he has no doubt that his lover would already have lectured him three times over on the importance of spacing out warding work over multiple days, regardless of the magical power that Salazar might have available.

‘ _Most would give themselves a week,_ ’ Rowena would huff when Godric turned to her for back-up. ‘ _At least take two days for it._ ’

“Get his trust first. If you feel comfortable to, keep your identity uncovered,” Salazar lists off. “If you can get the full story from him today, good. If not, we will hopefully be able to find him another time – and he will be swayed by the realisation that we have not led the authorities to his location. Be honest that we just want to know the truth so that we can bring the right person to justice – that we only discovered yesterday that he never had a trial.”

_That should cover it._

Sirius picks through the food he has managed to scavenge from the village, more concerned with his faint sense of guilt over stealing from Hogsmeade’s occupants than the less-than-ideal state of the meal itself. He has lived off far worse, after all – both in Azkaban and in the time since he escaped. Shifting from a crouch into a sitting position, he readies himself to tuck in, but the crack of apparition has him freezing before anything can pass his lips.

At once, where had previously been a man, a dog sits in place, scarfing down its lunch as hurriedly as possible as its ears prick up and tilt in the direction that the noise had come from. For a moment, there is only silence, tension creeping through the cave in which the dog shelters, then –

“I’m not here to report you,” an unfamiliar voice announces, and the dog stiffens immediately, teeth baring in a defensive snarl. “I just want to talk. Some things aren’t adding up, and I wanted to find out the truth.”

Slowly, warily, the dog pushes up onto all fours and slinks towards the entrance of the cave, unwilling to reveal itself but hoping to catch a hint of a scent.

“Depending on what that truth is,” the voice continues, “I might be able to offer help – or my Lord might.”

_A member of a noble house, then._

The dog sits back, considering. It is tempting, but is the risk really worth it?

“I’m not in any rush. My Lord discovered yesterday that you never had a trial, and my only job now is to talk to you. He won’t mind how long it takes – and nor do I.”

Well, the dog wasn’t sorted into Gryffindor for nothing – but that doesn’t mean that it is an outright idiot. A canine form, however large, is still much safer than any humanoid appearance if it wants to see its visitor and find out more about the situation.

Carefully, it steps into the dim half-light of late morning in December, lip curling up in a warning snarl for the blond man who sits on a boulder by the entrance of the cave.

“That…” the man hesitates, blinking, “…is not what I expected. Er… Well, if the accuracy of the warding system is to be believed, I suppose… Hello, Sirius Black.”

_Fuck_.

In an instant, Sirius shifts back to his usual form, borrowed wand clenched tightly in his fist. Perhaps he should have waited it out, played innocent, but he is running rather low on patience these days.

“What do you want?” he asks gruffly, ready to flee the second he spots any additional presences. “And how did you find me? Who even are you?”

The man tilts his head, considering.

“What order do you want me to answer those questions in?” he asks, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “If you don’t have a preference – I’m Quirinus Quirrell, seems the best place to start. I’m a member of House Slytherin.”

Slowly, Sirius nods.

“And you want to ask me for the _truth_ ,” he fills in, sceptical as he shifts his borrowed wand in his hand. “How are you going to be certain I’m not lying, then?”

“I’d take your word for it at first,” Quirinus admits, shrugging, and Sirius is just starting to think that the man is an absolutely moron when he continues, “And then Veritaserum, if you agree to it – or Lord Slytherin is more than competent when it comes to Legilimency.”

Considering it, Sirius examines his new acquaintance carefully. Veritaserum is more than anyone has offered him previously, but he can’t yet trust that it has been suggested in good faith. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Quirinus has not explained how he found Sirius, but – at least for now – that can be accepted; there are other things that Sirius would rather know.

“How’d you end up as part of House Slytherin?” he demands. “It’s not by blood is it?”

Quirinus shakes his head at once.

“No,” he admits easily. “I was Defence Professor at Hogwarts a few years ago, when Dumbledore was _hiding_ –” Sirius notes the unimpressed twist of Quirinus’s lips, “– an important artefact in the castle. I was possessed by a man named Tom Riddle; Lord Slytherin was the one to take me to the goblins and pay for my de-possession. Once he was sure that I wasn’t acting at all of my own accord, he offered me his protection in exchange for my service.”

Quirinus shrugs, then seems to hesitate on the verge of saying something more.

“What?” Sirius presses at once.

“He’s a good Lord, is what I was going to say,” Quirinus explains, “And a very good friend. If you’re wondering about him – which you clearly are.”

“He got a first name?” Sirius asks. “And who’s this Tom Riddle?”

“Of course Lord Slytherin has a first name,” Quirinus tells him, apparently amused. “It just isn’t something he likes to share. As for –”

“Do you know it?”

Quirinus blinks at him.

“Yes,” is the man’s simple response. “I said we were friends, didn’t I? Anyway, Tom Riddle is the former Dark Lord, known to the public as ‘You-Know-Who’. If you _are_ a supporter of his, I’m afraid we won’t get along – but you’re not, are you?”

Hesitating, Sirius glances around the hillside one last time, just to check that there is no one else around.

“Come in,” he mutters, waving a hand back in the direction of the cave. “It’s not much, but it’s better than Azkaban – and it’s out of sight, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, I'd quite like to know who would be interested in reading more about Salazar's time with Godric? It's something that I'm planning to write at least a bit on, but I'd like to get something of a gauge on how much people would like.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math, a chàirdean! I hope those of you who celebrate Christmas had a good Christmas, and that you all had a good week. Honestly, this chapter became something of a late Christmas present to the people who proofread it for me, because I finished it Friday evening. Oops.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who gave their opinion last week - but sorry I took so long to reply to some of you!

“Sirius Black,” Salazar starts on Sunday evening, when he meets Harry at the gates of Hogwarts, “May well be innocent.”

Harry, somewhat taken aback to find his uncle already in his Lord Slytherin guise, stops dead in his tracks at the pronouncement. He must have misheard, because he could have sworn that Salazar just said that _Sirius Black_ , the man who betrayed Harry’s parents, who killed thirteen people himself, a notorious – and _convicted_ – Death Eater, might be _innocent_.

And that, of course, is ludicrous.

“I went looking for his trial records, as you know,” Salazar continues, grim and entirely sincere. “I couldn’t find them. There is no sign a trial ever took place. Quirinus was then the one to help me realise that I am an _idiot_ , as it never occurred to me to use the wards to track Black in a similar manner to how I found Pettigrew… and that is how we discovered that, this very morning, he was in Hogsmeade.”

Immediately, Harry glances around. If Sirius Black was in Hogsmeade this morning, then he could be hiding behind any rock, lurking in the bushes, just waiting to ambush Harry and –

“Quirinus went to speak with him and, although he has yet to repeat the story he gave under Veritaserum, his version of events is rather different to the official tale. If you’d like, I can tell you all of it now, or we can discuss it after the Wizengamot session this evening.”

Cracking his knuckles nervously, Harry weighs up his options. If he hears it now, he doesn’t have to wait to find out what’s going on, but who knows what sort of state he’ll be in for the Wizengamot session? If he waits until afterwards, he can put it to the side for the time being, and they won’t be standing out here in the open for so long.

“After the session, I think,” he settles on, and Salazar nods, holding out his arm for Harry to take.

“To the Ministry, then.”

The Wizengamot session itself is rather short; it is the networking afterwards that drags on torturously, because Salazar has decided that several Heads of Houses are on the brink of shifting their allegiance to the Grey, and a conversation may well be the final push needed. Harry, meanwhile, is tasked with talking to the Heads of as many securely light-leaning Houses as possible, given that they’ll be far more open to discussion with him than with the anonymous and yet unknown Lord Slytherin, young though Harry might be.

It is a desperate relief to return to Potter Manor via Floo and follow his uncle through to the sitting room, settling into an armchair as Salazar lowers himself onto the couch next to Quirrell. At once, the ex-professor sets aside whatever it is that he was working on when they arrived, turning his attention to Salazar as Harry waits expectantly.

“Quirinus, would you be so kind as to explain what Sirius Black told you?” Salazar requests, settling back to cross one leg over the other. “Gently, please.”

Pressing his lips together, Quirrell nods and straightens.

“I think the best place to start would be that Black claims not to have been the Potters’ Secret Keeper,” he starts carefully, then pauses – for which, even though he’s only one sentence in, Harry is desperately grateful.

Sirius Black, not his parents’ Secret Keeper? If that were the case, then there is no way that Black could have betrayed them, no way that Black could have been directly at fault for their deaths.

“He claims that a decision was made to switch Secret Keepers, as he would have been the obvious choice,” Quirrell continues, quiet and steady. “He claims that Peter Pettigrew was chosen in his place, at his suggestion – which he deeply regrets.”

_Peter Pettigrew_. Peter Pettigrew, who is still alive, who is hiding out in Hogwarts, who faked his death at the hands of Black, who famously accused Black of betraying Harry’s parents before his ‘death’, who…

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Harry whispers, eyes widening.

“Language,” Salazar reprimands, though he sounds distracted.

Harry doesn’t even care; everything is falling into place, and it all makes far too much sense.

“Black claims that he was framed for the murder of thirteen people, including Pettigrew, and that it was actually Pettigrew who caused the explosion,” Quirrell continues after a beat of silence. “He claims – and I saw evidence of it myself – that he and his friends became unregistered animagi to support Remus Lupin through his transformations during the full moon –” which confirms that Professor Lupin is indeed a werewolf, Harry notes, “– and that Pettigrew cut off his finger before blowing up the street and transforming into his animagus form, that of a rat, to flee the scene.”

“Ron Weasley has a pet rat,” Harry mutters, wishing desperately that he could somehow _not_ know that even as he says it. “Ron’s a Third-Year Gryffindor.”

Quirrell nods at him, and Harry has the strangest thought that, if the man were still a teacher, he’d just have earned five points for Ravenclaw.

“Black claims that he saw a picture of Pettigrew in the newspaper; the Weasley family won a cash prize and spent it on a holiday to visit their eldest son in Egypt, and apparently the rat is missing exactly the right toe – though Black insists that he would have recognised Pettigrew regardless.”

“So…” Harry swallows. “If he’s telling the truth, then Pettigrew was the one who betrayed my parents, who killed all those people – and he’s been hiding out in Hogwarts for who-knows-how-long.”

“I suspect that Black is telling the truth,” Salazar offers quietly. “Quirinus did not mention our knowledge that Pettigrew is alive; Black brought that up entirely of his own accord. From what I remember of the two of them, given our new information, Black’s tale makes more sense to me as well.”

Slowly, Harry sinks back into his armchair. For over two years, he has been spending the majority of his year living in the same building as a man who may well have been the one to betray his parents – and who surely must have had dozens of opportunities to off Harry as well along the way.

“Why hasn’t Pettigrew ever tried to kill me, then?” he asks, voice shaking a lot more than he intended.

“Peter was never the reckless sort,” Salazar muses, running a finger along his jaw. “I doubt he saw any personal gain in it.”

“But he saw personal gain in betraying my parents,” Harry fills in.

“Riddle was a powerful man,” Salazar replies, and his lips twist in disgust as he continues. “It may well have seemed like picking the winning side.”

“That sounds very much like Black’s opinion on the matter,” Quirrell volunteers, and adds, when Salazar glances questioningly in his direction, “I forgot to mention that earlier. He said almost exactly what you did.”

Salazar hums, considering.

“We might have discussed it once, when we were younger,” he allows. “James always wanted to see the best in people, Peter included – Sirius and I were far more sceptical, moronic as Sirius could be in other aspects of interpersonal intelligence.”

It is a strange reminder of the fact that Salazar actually knew these people as well – if only for a few years, and hardly as well as Harry’s father did.

“So what are you doing now?” Harry asks in favour of thinking more on that.

“We’ll verify his story,” Salazar fills in at once. “If he is indeed telling the truth, then I suspect that the best approach will be to draw Lady Bones’ attention to the lack of trial and let her start to draw her own conclusions before prompting her to consider opening up the opportunity for a trial and presenting Pettigrew to her as evidence. For now, I think it would be best to leave Pettigrew where he is, though he will have to be secured before there is any chance of our movements being made public…”

“And then it’s simply a matter of persuading Black to trust the Ministry enough to endure the trial,” Quirrell mutters.

“Joy,” Salazar sighs, shaking his head. “That may well be the hardest part, given their track record concerning him – not that he ever had much trust of authority regardless.”

“Or of us, yet,” Quirrell reasons. “He was watching you both this evening, wasn’t he?”

At once, Harry stiffens. He hadn’t expected his fear that Sirius Black might be lurking in the shadows to have a legitimate basis in _reality_.

“I believe so,” Salazar agrees, apparently unconcerned. “He seemed very content to remain at a distance and simply watch.”

Frowning, Harry looks his uncle over.

“Is that why you turned up as Lord Slytherin?” he asks, wondering why he didn’t think of this earlier. “So you could tell me about him without him making any connections if he saw?”

Salazar nods with a smile, apparently proud of Harry for figuring that out.

In the end, Harry returns to Hogwarts with a request from Salazar to check whether Hermione is still planning to join them for Yule, which cheers him up at once. Among everything else that has been going on around him, he forgot that Hermione might be coming over for part of the holiday, and the reminder is a very welcome one.

“How’s the Wizengamot?” Terry asks when Harry makes it back to the common room. “Still functioning?”

“Just about,” Harry assures him, grinning. “There wasn’t much going on today, honestly. More talking afterwards than in the actual session.”

“Afterwards?” Oliver repeats, apparently curious as he twirls his finger in his hair. “What do you talk about afterwards?”

“Anything,” Harry replies honestly. “Whatever makes people like you a bit more. And then _occasionally_ , you actually have a conversation about one thing, but layer a conversation about politics underneath it.”

“What, like that kind of… vague, skirting-around-everything thing?” Oliver presses.

“Pretty much,” Harry allows, shrugging, and bites back a laugh when Oliver perks up. “It’s not as cool as it sounds, I promise.”

Slowly, Oliver deflates.

“Really?” he asks, very clearly disappointed, and Terry pouts in mock-sympathy.

“Aw, he’s upset, bless him…”

Amused, Harry shakes his head.

“Well… sometimes it’s fun,” he concedes, rolling his eyes when Oliver sits upright and Terry cheers. “It just depends who it is and what it’s about. And maybe it’s just me who doesn’t enjoy it. I think… Lord Slytherin seems to like it.”

“News flash,” Lisa cuts in, “The man descended from the Founder of the House of Politicians likes speaking like a politician.”

Harry has to laugh at that, even though the comment is flawed given its basis in incorrect facts; that Salazar is, in fact, the Founder himself only makes it all the funnier.

“Can’t believe it’s nearly _Yule_ ,” Padma sighs once everyone has stopped giggling. “This term has seemed so much busier than the other years, don’t you think?”

“That’s because you get side-tracked from your Charms homework and start learning the latest magical theory instead,” Mandy tells her – quite reasonably, in Harry’s opinion.

“At least that’s better than _Chess_ ,” Padma huffs, folding her arms. “Professor Flitwick accepts my extra research as long as I tell him what I was looking at. Professor McGonagall was _not_ impressed when you didn’t do your essay the other week!”

Well, that is an equally good point, Harry has to allow.

“That was not –!” Mandy cuts herself off, scowling. “That wasn’t Chess – I was just busy, alright? Harry, tell her!”

Harry blinks, bemused, at his housemate.

“Me?” he asks. “Mandy, I have no idea what you were doing instead of your Transfiguration homework.”

At once, Mandy shoves him.

“You were meant to _back me up_ , idiot!”

Harry nudges her back, rolling his eyes at Padma as he does so. At once, Mandy shoves him again – then turns to glare at Terry when he decides to join in on the fun and almost sends her sprawling into Harry.

“It was definitely Chess,” Padma tells Harry while Mandy is distracted by Terry. “…And now they’re fighting like children.”

“We are children,” Tony points out, glancing up from his book for the first time. “We’re _allowed_ to be idiots, Padma.”

It is all Harry can do not to wince at that particular suggestion, because it sounds an awful lot like a crude version of what Salazar has been trying to tell him recently – and he still isn’t convinced by it. Maybe, if he didn’t have so much to worry about, so much that he has to get _perfect_ , then he could afford to agree with Tony.

As it is, he can’t.

“Well, I’ll take this opportunity to escape,” he tells his housemates in a low tone, eyeing Mandy warily and biting back a smile when she grabs Terry’s hair and pulls.

“ _Ow_ , Mandy!” Terry yelps as Harry stands. “Right, we’ll see how you like it, then…”

“Terry, that hurt!”

“No _shit_ , Sherlock!”

“ _What_ did he just say…?”

During Monday’s lunch break, Harry relays the conversation of yesterday evening to Hermione in lowered tones, wandering the school grounds reasonably close to the castle together with their wands out. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t quite feel as comfortable talking about the Sirius Black situation with the others, besides that Hermione knows how it started on Saturday, but Hermione seems to understand Harry’s need to talk only to her, at least.

“So…” she begins when Harry finishes speaking, then bites her lip, apparently concerned. “Sirius Black _might_ be innocent? But we don’t – we don’t _know_ , yet?”

Nodding, Harry takes a quick look around, just in case Sirius Black has somehow snuck back onto school grounds and is following them either as a man or a dog.

“And he’s an unregistered Animagus,” Hermione adds, frowning. “And… I mean, that’s… _Why_?”

“He had a friend who was a werewolf,” Harry explains, fully aware that it would not be fair to Professor Lupin to go about revealing his secrets. “It was so they could spend full moons together.”

“Oh!” Hermione exclaims, to his surprise. “Professor Lupin?”

For a moment, Harry can only stare at her, before he gives up trying to unpick how she figured that out. He can always ask her later.

“…Yeah,” he confirms slowly.

Humming, Hermione draws to a stop and turns to face him, tilting her head.

“So your dad was probably an unregistered Animagus as well?” she asks, which is like a punch to the gut – and she seems to know it, if her soft smile and the hand that settles on his shoulder are anything to go by.

“Maybe,” Harry manages, the word fainter than he intended. “I – Yeah, I didn’t think about that before.”

When she pulls him closer, he falls wordlessly into the hug, letting her rub a hand soothingly up and down his back. If she’s right, then this is one more puzzle piece to slot into the picture that he is trying so hard to build of his parents – a picture that sometimes just seems so _empty_.

“Maybe you could ask Professor Lupin about it one day,” she murmurs as he sniffs quietly. “Or… Well, if Black turns out to be innocent…”

“Yeah,” Harry hears himself mutter, already ploughing on to admit, “I don’t know how to feel about that. At all.”

Hermione hums questioningly, a gentle prompt for him to explain further. He isn’t sure how to, though; there is so much confusion in his thoughts right now, that he can’t even begin to sort through them – but no, he just needs to apply his growing Occlumency ability. Maybe it won’t get the entire mess that is his emotions right now in order, but it will give him a starting point to talk it through with a trusted friend.

“It’s one of those things that Salazar found out when he came back, you know?” it feels best to start. “And then he broke it to me eventually. And it’s just been a _fact_ since – Sirius Black _was_ my dad’s best friend, but he turned out to be a – a fucking traitor, and he’s been locked up ever since. And now… maybe that’s not true? But for however-many-months, I’ve been, like, always looking behind me, always waiting for him to jump out of nowhere and _try to kill me_ , but maybe he doesn’t want that at all? Maybe he’s after the real traitor – or at least some bloke who was meant to be a friend of my dad’s as well, and faked his death for some reason…”

Drawing in a deep breath, he settles his chin on her shoulder.

“I think the uncertainty’s the worst of it,” he explains, feeling a little more confident of the idea as he voices it aloud. “If it was just – If I _knew_ that all the stuff I heard before was wrong, then maybe that would be okay? But maybe he’s still the reason my parents are dead, so I still want to hate him.”

“I… can’t say I know what you’re going through,” Hermione offers quietly, “So I certainly don’t have answers for you – but no one’s saying you have to change your mind on him _now_. If it’s just making you feel worse when you still don’t know the truth…”

She might be right, though Harry isn’t sure that he likes the idea of just ignoring the developing situation entirely – or even if he’ll be capable of doing so. If nothing else, it might be the best option he has.

Harry doesn’t have anything else to say, and Hermione doesn’t seem to either but, equally, she seems no more ready to head inside than he feels. Instead, they slowly detangle themselves and turn to watch the mist that drifts across the furthest rolling hills of Hogwarts’ expansive grounds. Even past midday, frost still blankets the heather, grass and rocks alike on the closer rises, glittering in the weak December sun that streams through wisps of soft, white cloud that curl amidst the pearly blue of the sky.

Somewhere, out amidst the fog, a bird call breaks the silence, twangling through the air as Harry takes a second to breathe and simply exist in time and space.

“It looks beautiful,” Hermione whispers at his side, apparently unwilling to break the peace but unable to keep the thought to herself; Harry nods, mute.

Some way below them, the Black Lake ripples and shimmers, sunlight and vivid reflections dancing off its feathered surface. When Harry concentrates, he thinks he might be able to hear the faint lapping of its waters against the rocks at its shores, wearing the solid earth gradually down with incessant, merciless caresses.

“Sometimes, it doesn’t even seem real,” he mumbles.

In the corner of his eye, Hermione hesitates, then nods her understanding.

Harry stares down at the photo. He looks up at Blaise. Back down at the monochrome, moving photo. Back up at Blaise’s despairing features. Back down at the simple image. Back up at that contorted misery.

“…What’s the problem?” he ventures carefully, unsure if he even wants to know.

Blaise waves a hand at the photo again, as if that explains everything, then groans in wordless despair.

“Lord Slytherin’s having lunch with your mother,” Harry fills in, utterly lost.

Salazar mentioned that it would be happening in his last letter, and Harry really doesn’t seem the problem. Adelina is hardly the only Head of a House that Salazar has been meeting with recently, though she is a good deal more important than most of the others. Certainly, Blaise has no reason to be acting like this.

“ _Exactly_ …” Blaise merely moans, all hint of decorum lost as he glances cautiously at the photo before looking away and covering his eyes. “It’s a train-wreck just _waiting_ to happen.”

_Er… Alright._

Luckily, the majority of Harry’s year-mates seem even more confused than he feels. Less fortunately, Pansy is nodding her understanding and patting Blaise’s arm in a gesture that is clearly meant to be consoling, Vincent’s face stuck in a near-permanent grimace of sympathy.

Standing with arms folded next to Dudley, Draco meets Harry’s eyes and mouths a single word that explains everything.

“Blaise, Lord Slytherin is _not_ courting your mother, and neither is she courting him.”

At once, Blaise looks up, hope gleaming in his eyes.

“Are you _certain_?” he demands. “Because this is – It’s classic her. Wine them, dine them…”

“It’s a political meeting,” Harry tells him firmly. “That’s all. She’s the current Dark Lord – you don’t normally get this worked up whenever she meets with someone, do you?”

“They’re normally _married_ ,” Blaise sighs. “And Lord Slytherin’s a mystery. Mum likes mysteries.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry realises what will most set Blaise at ease.

“He might be a mystery, but he’s also gay,” he informs his Slytherin year-mate, whose eyes narrow at once.

“Why would you know that?” Blaise asks, obviously suspicious.

Harry folds his arms. There is no way that Blaise would be this oblivious if he were thinking clearly, but that doesn’t mean that Harry can’t be unimpressed in the meantime. Still, this is a very convenient way to strengthen his image as a political figure and a source of insight for his entire year.

“We’re allies,” he points out. “That’s been public knowledge since the summer. And it’s also the reason I _know_ this is a political meeting. I could literally tell you everything they talked about, if you want – that’s not politically sensitive, at least.”

To Harry’s relief, no one actually wants that list. He doesn’t actually want to have to recite everything that Salazar told him in that last letter, not least because he ended on quite the tangent about mobile wards that went entirely over Harry’s head; apparently, Salazar couldn’t be bothered to rewrite the entire letter just to get rid of that, or perhaps he forgot that Harry would have absolutely no idea what he was talking about.

It has now been a week since Harry found out that Sirius Black might not be everything that Harry has been led to believe so far. He still isn’t entirely sure that he’s coping with it, but trying to get his thoughts in order each night has been excellent practice for his Occlumency, and Master Snape was more than a little satisfied with his progress on Friday evening – and definitely incredibly pleased with how successfully Harry employed that improvement to talk through the issue with some clarity this morning.

Still, there’s more to be done on the Mind Magic front, and Salazar doesn’t seem to have found anything useful to solve the _What’s in Harry’s Head_ problem. It’s looking increasingly likely that Harry will be submitting his mind for Legilimency inspection at some point during the upcoming holiday, and he’s more than a little nervous about it.

“Harry, can I talk to you?” Daphne Greengrass asks, nodding in thanks when Harry indicates the seat next to him at once. “We have one more of these sessions for the term next week.”

It isn’t phrased as a question, but Harry nods the confirmation that she’s looking for. Daphne just has that way of speaking, sometimes.

“My sister mentioned something,” she continues, satisfied with his response. “She’s a First-Year.”

“Astoria,” Harry identifies at once, to assure Daphne that he knows her sister full-well; he makes a habit of keeping track of his year-mates’ younger siblings. “She’s a bright kid.”

Daphne’s lips twitch up.

“A lot of the students in her year, much like ours, are oblivious to our traditions,” she continues instead of acknowledging the words aloud. “I thought perhaps we should explain Yule to them next week – and to the Second-Years, too.”

That isn’t a bad idea at all. In fact, Harry rather likes it.

“Thank you for bringing it up,” he starts, meeting her eyes briefly before letting his gaze wander off as he considers the idea further. “I think that’d be excellent, actually. Is it something that you want to do yourself or be involved in, or would you rather stay behind the scenes?”

He grins to let her know that he is already fully aware of her answer, and she doesn’t hold her answering smile back this time.

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands,” she assures him, then stands. “Thank you.”

That leaves Harry with an incredible opportunity, and with only the questions of how to bring it up and how best to present the explanation of Yule, as well as the persecution of the traditions of Magical Britain. It’s a much nicer problem to contend with than some of the others he has dealt with this term, and both Salazar and Master Snape will probably have some good suggestions.

In the meantime, though, he can’t work out where the problem is in this Arithmancy work. He loves Arithmancy, he really does, but reading back through solutions, even his own, is pure torture. If there’s some trick to it, then he certainly doesn’t know what it is.

The next week is a blur of planning and end-of-term work, and Harry spends what little free time he has rehearsing his speeches, every word painstakingly memorised, every subtle shift in body language and hint of inflection rehashed again and again until it is absolutely perfect. It was Master Snape who, on hearing of Harry’s upcoming education of the First- and Second-Years, suggested that Harry build on the events of next Sunday morning to address the Wizengamot himself on the same day, and it really is an excellent idea.

It’s just also horrifically nerve-wracking.

What doesn’t help is that Salazar is busier than ever, apparently torn between trying to work his way into a position to get Sirius Black a trial (should his story turn out true when he submits to Veritaserum), researching obscure aspects of Mind Magic for Harry as well as a variety of other subjects that he tells Harry – rather apologetically – are probably best left undiscussed for the foreseeable future, and building alliances with other Heads of Houses. There is clearly no way that the man can make time in his impossible schedule to help Harry with this preparation; Harry took one look at his uncle’s face when they first discussed the idea of Harry addressing the Wizengamot and Salazar was trying to find time to assist, and declared that he would be fine alone.

Still, Master Snape alone is more than brilliant, even if this kind of politics isn’t entirely his forte. He knows a lot about non-verbal communication, at least, and has been guiding Harry in using Occlumency to support it all.

“If your shields aren’t functional by the end of the week,” Master Snape murmurs at one point, peering down at the long roll of parchment on which Harry has scribbled his Wizengamot speech and all its notes, “I will want to know what went wrong. This word here – you’ve used it already, a few sentences ago. Find a synonym.”

By the end of the editing process alone, Harry feels like a walking thesaurus. All the same, he feels ready for it – or at least as ready as he ever will.

That doesn’t stop him from being absolutely terrified on Sunday morning and, though he locks everything he truly feels away from the surface and projects calm surety to his audience, the nerves only rise as he talks to the First- and Second-Years. This isn’t the difficult bit, though; if he misses anything here, the younger year-groups are getting close enough that the students who know about the traditions that Harry is explaining will fill in their less knowledgeable counterparts. Here, he can actually afford to offer himself the slightest bit of leeway.

In the Wizengamot, in front of all of his peers in station rather than approximate age, with only a week’s preparation…

_Salazar has done more with only a_ day _to prepare_ , he reminds himself fiercely. _If he can do that, you can manage a week._

Unfortunately, telling himself that does little to help when time rushes up on him and suddenly he is standing in the Wizengamot chamber, his only support Salazar’s hidden gaze on his back until, some way along the seat that curves around on his right, he catches sight of Nicolas – and there’s Lord Weasley nearby, Lady Longbottom further around and much closer to them with Lord Shacklebolt not far from her. None of them have ever been anything but nice to him.

To his left, he’s equally aware of Lucius, and then there’s Adelina holding court, Lady Parkinson just a few seats further back. Even the familiar back of the Head of House Davis – Lady Davis today, if Harry can see the earrings correctly – soothes him somewhat.

“My fellow magic-users,” he begins and, when his voice doesn’t crack with anxiety, settles firmly into his speech to move on, “I stand before you today to share a concern with you that has grown before my own eyes. It is a concern that has stood for far longer than I, but equally a concern that I do not want to see outlive me.”

Introduction out of the way, he pauses to draw a deep – but not _too_ deep, not enough to be noticeable or to make him seem anxious – breath, then continues.

“Every Sunday morning, myself and several of my peers in Hogwarts support the younger students in study sessions that include all four houses, working together in tandem to learn and grow. We offer them academic advice, help them to forge strong friendships throughout their year-groups, and even explain the ways of our world to them when necessary.

“Last week, a gap in the knowledge of some of my fellow students was brought to my attention, so of course I sought to rectify it. That is why I spent the entirety of this morning explaining the very basics of our traditions and the ways of life that have been passed down through our families, parent to child – or guardian to child, as my uncle did for me. If he had not – if I had grown up with my non-magical aunt and uncle alone – then I would have come to Hogwarts, into our beautiful community, with not a single idea of the foundations I now am lifted by, nor of the precious culture that I would have found myself trampling over.”

It’s so tempting, in this moment, to crack his joints, to twist his fingers, to _somehow_ fidget and release the restless energy inside him. He doesn’t, though. He can’t afford to. Even if his throat is a little dry, all he can do is nudge Salazar’s foot with more subtlety than he has ever employed for anything in his life and hide his urge to slump in relief when Salazar’s wordless and wandless charm deals with that problem for him.

“I was lucky. My peers – like a dear friend of mine, Hermione Granger, born and raised in an entirely non-magical household – can say similar. Hermione has learnt our traditions with eagerness, supported solely by her fellow students, and now it is her choice to step away from the culture in which she was raised and into that which we belong to. Others may choose differently, but what is important is that they _have that choice_. They may not wish to join our Yule rituals in a few weeks, but it will be an informed decision that they make, and they will not drown _our_ heritage unwittingly. With knowledge of differences comes _respect_.

“Others are not so fortunate. There are many students within Hogwarts – and many adults within our community, going about their lives among us – who have never had the same opportunity. Some might never know what they have missed out on. They have not had a chance to learn or to understand, and have never been given a _choice_. And as long as they do not know about our culture, they do not have a chance of respecting it.”

_Nearly there._

“For most, if not all, magic-users raised in non-magical households, Hogwarts is their only connection to the magical community until they come of age. The only chance they have to learn of our ways is within its walls – and as proud as I am to teach and to share my heritage, I cannot fulfil this role alone, nor with only my peers within Hogwarts. I ask, therefore, that legislation is considered to introduce education on our heritage and customs for all students entering Hogwarts. To those of you who do not hold to these traditions, I ask that you bear in mind that the culture itself is not the matter at hand – the question is merely whether it is _right_ to deprive others of their freedom to choose. Thank you.”

It’s only when he sits that Harry notices the trembling in his hands. He has just given his first speech to the Wizengamot – and it seemed to take both an age and a second. As the usual low murmuring breaks out across the chamber, Salazar takes the opportunity to lean in.

“ _Well done_ , Harry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I'd love your thoughts, or even just to hear how you're doing - or if anyone wants to say hi for the first time...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math, a chàirdean! I hope you are all well, as ever, and Happy New Year - even if I can't understand the people who seem to have assumed that everything will now magically better now that we write our dates differently...
> 
> At any rate - a quick **warning** : there are some issues surrounding food/disordered eating raised in this chapter (they have actually been raised very briefly once before, but I felt that it was too subtle to warrant a warning, as it was more a precursor than any actual problem). It shouldn't be too heavy, and I'm going to try to keep it away from going too far, as much for my health as for yours, but it's there, and this won't be the last chapter it comes up in. I probably won't signpost every single time it comes up, but I will be adding it to the tags, as I've done with homophobia.

The last week of term, Hermione finds, passes in something of a blur. She only has three pieces of homework to complete, compared to her usual… Well, she doesn’t know the exact number. The prank that Fred and George procured their help on comes off without a hitch; all of the staff who walk through the Entrance Hall on Wednesday spend the next two days with near-invisible hands, the result of a very interesting set of charms on each doorway connected to the Entrance Hall; as they only act on those over the age of twenty _leaving_ the hall, they are all but undetectable on entering and, once inside, it is too late. Unfortunately, no one ever figured out how to make the charm apply itself to any gloves that those affected might put on as well, and the staff catch onto that far too quickly.

Harry is buzzing from the success of his speech at the Wizengamot, a high that she doesn’t think he will be coming down from until some time over the Winter Holidays. Hermione has already finalised agreements with her parents and Salazar to travel straight home with him, Harry, and Dudley, and she has packed everything she needs for a week’s stay with them before she goes back to her parents’. All there seems to be to do is attend her lessons, flips of her time-turner interspersed throughout, and contemplate the endless possibilities for outcomes of this situation with Sirius Black.

At least Harry is too pleased with how Sunday went to worry about that anymore.

Still, Hermione knows that she cannot entirely blame boredom for giving in and writing to ask if Salazar would be willing to teach her that controlled version of _Arresto Momentum_ ; she is curious, and she wants to be able to do it herself if she ever needs to. The fact that she might be starting to trust Salazar despite everything she has read about him doesn’t bear thinking about at the moment. After all, it is hardly relevant.

To her surprise, Salazar doesn’t refuse, or so much as ask for a justification, never mind any kind of payment. Instead, he simply offers to teach her the foundations of wandless magic while he is at it – _I’m afraid the foundations are all I can offer in a week but, if you are interested, we can follow up at a later date_ – and she can’t say no to that.

So it is that, early on Saturday morning, Hermione finds herself sitting up in bed, fiddling – incredibly carefully – with the time-turner that rests around her neck as she considers the situation.

In the last few months, Salazar Slytherin has started to assist her in further study of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, and begun to teach her the basics of warding; he is now offering to teach her to master greater control over her magic – even if it is centred around one particular spell – and has also suggested that he start to teach her wandless magic. She even thinks that he might have made a vague reference to the Mind Arts at some point. She doesn’t need to have grown up in Magical Britain to understand that this isn’t normal.

For Harry and Dudley, it is fine. They are, after all, Salazar’s family. She, however, is most definitely not, and it bothers her that she hasn’t yet succeeded in deciphering his motives. What reason could he have for offering her so much knowledge with no clear and obvious payment? If he were building up a debt, then he wouldn’t have _offered_ her so much of this help, almost like a gift – never mind that she can’t fathom what sort of favour he might have wanted from _her_. Is it to help Harry? His behaviour might make sense, she supposes, if his goal is to strengthen those who care about Harry.

Only, unless he plans to go through them one at a time, Hermione is fairly sure that she would be aware of him assisting Neville and Draco as well.

If not that, then he has some other kind of ulterior motive for establishing himself as a teacher or mentor to her, and it irks her beyond belief that she can’t figure out what it could be.

She has a week ahead of her, at least, that should give her some clues but, before that, there is one last thing she wants to try here. The only problem is that none of her housemates will be happy if she wakes them up _now_ to ask their advice on some innocuous situation, and that means waiting several more hours.

Slowly, the minutes drag by, hauling themselves along one after the other while Hermione sits in the static darkness and waits. After some time, it occurs to her that she could read a book for a while, so she drags one of the library books that Salazar recommended out of the bag that she plans to carry with her on the train, her wand with it. Hopefully, she won’t regret using up some of her pre-prepared reading material tomorrow.

When sounds from beyond her curtains signal the rising of her dormmates, Hermione closes her book and peers out into the rest of the room, offering Pansy a smile as she tucks her book back into her bag.

“How long have you been up?” Daphne asks quietly, watching Tracy warily when the girl stirs then relaxing when it becomes clear that they haven’t woken her. “I thought you were saving that book for the train.”

Hermione glances down at her bag and shrugs.

“A few hours,” she replies. “I was bored – I just have to hope I still have enough to read today.”

Daphne’s smile is small and slight.

“I’m sure there will be plenty of other entertainment if not.”

Nodding, Hermione heads for the door; she got dressed when she first realised that she wouldn’t be getting back to sleep at two o’clock this morning, and she intends to catch Draco before he makes his way to breakfast. This is a conversation that she has hesitated long enough over having, and the last thing she wants is to have to wait longer for it now.

Luckily, Draco detaches himself easily enough from Blaise’s side when Hermione beckons him over to her seat – the one with the clearest view of the entrance to the dormitories, which she claimed as soon as she reached the common room – and settles himself next to her, already expectant.

“I need to ask your advice on something,” she tells him plainly, because good friends they might be, but Draco is still occasionally more receptive to requests for help when his ‘responsibilities’ to help her learn the ropes are shoved under his nose.

She learnt that one from Harry, back when Draco was far too oblivious to even pick up on it. Now, he narrows his eyes at her, clearly aware of the ploy, but his lips still twitch up as he nods.

“What’s the situation?”

Carefully, Hermione assesses his mood and considers how best to frame the rest of it. He isn’t feeling particularly vindictive, it seems, which means she doesn’t have to worry about convincing him that it isn’t something to hold over her head.

“If someone – an adult – were offering to teach you various subjects, and had been giving you guidance on your lessons here,” she starts, and Draco’s frown is immediate, “What would you say their end-goal was?”

For a moment, Draco pauses, considering.

“ _Offering_?” he checks. “Not agreeing to requests?”

“Offering,” Hermione confirms then, after a moment’s hesitation while she thinks it over, adds, “Support in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, recommending books on warding and setting… well, I guess it’s _homework_ , really… Offering to teach me wandless magic – and maybe Mind Magic? I’m not sure. There was one thing I asked about that he agreed to teach me, though – but that’s more recent than some of this.”

Draco blinks at her, then snorts quietly.

“Dropping the hypothetical so quickly?” he prods, which she answers with an unabashed shrug; they both know that she was always talking about herself. “Well… You said _maybe_ the Mind Arts?”

Carefully, Hermione nods.

“I’m fairly sure he suggested it, but I’m not certain.”

“Apprenticeship,” Draco fills in at once, tone filled with utter certainty. “Salazar’s going for an apprenticeship with you at some point. He must _really_ see something if he’s considering it without ever having worked with you.”

Hermione doesn’t comment on him naming Salazar the adult in question. It can’t be that hard to work out, all things considered.

“How do you know that’s what he wants?” she asks instead, watching Draco closely. “Something to do with Mind Magic?”

Nodding, Draco twists his lips.

“Sev always said – you don’t teach the Mind Arts unless you have a strong bond of trust with someone, and if you’re not already a family member then you want to make it formal. Like in an apprenticeship.”

Draco seems to consider his words briefly.

“Well, _sometimes_ it happens anyway,” he amends. “But it’s not really recommended.”

Hermione takes a moment of silence to let that information sink in, Draco apparently well aware of her desire to work this through on her own before the conversation continues. Salazar – Harry’s uncle, Lord Slytherin, Founder of her Hogwarts house, _Salazar Slytherin_ – is considering offering her an apprenticeship, if Draco’s theory is to be believed. In what, she still has little idea, though she suspects that it might be related to warding.

“So what do I do now?”

Shrugging, Draco glances over the common room before turning back to her.

“I have no idea,” he admits. “It varies – Sev does it one way, but that doesn’t mean Salazar will do it the same way. Talk to him, I guess.”

_Which means there’s not much use in asking Harry._

At least there is now a week’s opportunity to have this conversation with Salazar, Hermione supposes.

“And you’re sure that’s what he wants?” she checks. “It isn’t some other…?”

“About as sure as I can be without you asking him,” is Draco’s easy response. “Do you think you’ll agree to it?”

Hermione shrugs, already certain that she can’t answer that without knowing more about what Salazar might be offering – never mind without talking to the man himself.

“Are you planning on asking Dudley to go to Hogsmeade with you next term?” she returns, and Draco glares at her in sullen, spiteful silence. “Oh, come on…”

Draco folds his arms, chin dropping to his chest. Trying to bottle up her impatience, Hermione stretches out her foot to nudge his leg in gentle comfort and waits for him to respond. It is so _achingly_ obvious that Draco is interested in Dudley, and that the feeling is very much mutual. The pair of them being determined to pretend otherwise isn’t going to help anyone – least of all Hermione.

She might have to take Blaise and Pansy up on their offer of forming a small support group until the idiot sitting next to her actually trusts them enough to believe them when they tell him that Dudley wouldn’t reject him.

“I _do_ know he’d be interested,” Draco mutters finally, stilted as his pale eyes flicker anywhere but her face. “You’ve all been telling me enough.”

That, Hermione allows, is new progress – but apparently it isn’t about to solve the problem.

“What’s wrong, then?” she prompts. “Even if it doesn’t work out long-term – you never know if you don’t…”

“Easy for you to say,” Draco grumbles. “Did Harry ever tell you what Dudley’s parents did to Salazar last year?”

Wary, Hermione shakes her head. Harry never mentioned anything about Vernon and Petunia doing something to Salazar; she knows that there is a definite tension between Harry’s adult relatives, and that there have been multiple peaks in that feud of sorts, but never has Harry told her about any particular incidents.

“Dudley said he found out over the summer,” Draco explains in a low tone. “His dad attacked Salazar – the muggle way.”

Horrified, Hermione stares at her friend in silence.

“And when Salazar was going to fight back,” Draco adds, as if that wasn’t even the worst bit, “Dudley’s mum threatened to curse him and said she’d have him sent to Azkaban if he did anything.”

Hermione doesn’t even know what to say to that. Vaguely, she remembers seeing Vernon corner Salazar on Harry’s twelfth birthday, but she had forgotten about that, somewhere in the mess of the last year. At any rate, it doesn’t make this any less shocking.

“So even if Dudley’s interested, that doesn’t mean he wants to rock the boat like that,” Draco concludes, “And… Well, if they’ll do that to _Salazar_ , what do you think they’d do to me?”

_Well._ Staring at his dejected features, Hermione considers what she could say to him. It doesn’t feel as though empty platitudes are exactly going to be helpful at the moment.

“You don’t have to live with them,” she points out, then pauses to work out if what else she wants to say is common knowledge among their group of friends; she thinks it is. “Salazar’s planning to move out by next summer, anyway. Dudley might not go _with_ him, I guess, but at least you wouldn’t have to worry about only being able to visit him at his parents’ house.”

Slowly, Draco nods his acknowledgement of that, brow creased as he mulls it over.

“I’ll think about it,” he announces after a brief pause, then stands. “We’ve been sitting here far too long – Blaise will be worried.”

Hermione doesn’t doubt that Blaise believes them fully capable of looking after themselves, but she allows him the excuse all the same, merely biting down on a smile as she follows him from the common room.

The train journey is long and arduous as ever. Hermione loves her friends, she does, but sometimes she wishes that they would be a little quieter to allow her to read in peace. Harry, at least, is aware enough to keep his voice down and quieten Dudley and Draco every so often, which she is grateful for.

All the same, she gives up eventually, setting her book aside and turning her gaze out of the window to watch the countryside flash by in a blur, faintly aware of Neville doing the same across from her. The volume in the carriage isn’t even the entire problem when it comes to her focus; her thoughts keep wandering off, back to her conversation with Draco – to the prospect of an apprenticeship but also to what he told her about Vernon and Petunia. If she was a little anxious about staying a week at Harry’s before, then she is a nervous wreck now.

_How do Harry and Dudley cope?_

For the rest of the journey, she sits in quiet dread, conscious of Harry eventually settling back to do some reading of his own and of Dudley and Draco falling into quiet conversation. Neville started sketching plants by memory and labelling their various parts somewhere around the border between England and Scotland – or, at least, that is what Hermione assumes he is doing. Certainly, it is what he normally uses that notebook for.

To Hermione’s relief, it is Salazar who greets them on the platform, Vernon and Petunia nowhere in sight. She almost feels bad for not wanting to see them, because they have never been anything but kind and gracious towards her, but Draco’s words from this morning have shaken her.

“Good afternoon, Hermione,” Salazar greets her warmly when he has hugged both Harry and Dudley. “Do you have everything you need?”

Hermione nods, holding up her bag of clothing, essentials, and other belongings for the week, and sees his eyes catch briefly on the book under her arm; when he meets her gaze once more, there is a definite glint of approval within his stare.

“We’ll be taking a portkey home,” he announces after a moment, holding out a simple ring of metal. “Link a finger around it, and I will activate it.”

Hermione secures her hold on her bag and book then does as told, wondering briefly why Salazar is bothering with a portkey when he seems to be more than powerful enough to apparate them all – she knows he collapsed after taking her, Harry, Draco, and Neville to Professor Snape’s office last year, but she assumed that was because he was already exhausted – until it occurs to her, as his lips move with a muttered activation phrase, that this is much less likely to draw attention. Still, although Harry seems to prefer portkey to apparition, Hermione is very definitely the _opposite_ , and she can’t hold back her grimace when she finally hits the ground, stumbling until Salazar reaches out to steady her by the shoulder.

“The ring is made of iron,” he tells her as they make their way down the road to their destination. “Why is that more efficient than, say, bronze?”

“It transfers magic more easily,” she responds automatically. “It can store more as well, but it doesn’t hold it as long, so you’d have to charge it more often, wouldn’t you?”

Nodding, Salazar turns the ring over in his fingers. This is the first time Hermione has seen him in ‘teacher mode’ in person, and it is fascinating how similar it seems to what she knows of his usual persona.

“So how would you solve the storage problem?” he asks, then his lips twitch. “ _Without_ using a core of another material.”

Slowly, her mouth opens, then closes. How to change the magical storage properties of iron _without_ using a different material? The whole reason iron doesn’t hold magic long is the same as why it is more efficient to use as a conduit; it transfers the magic very easily, a natural conductor that offers very little resistance to the magic and therefore doesn’t waste much of it.

“So…” she starts, then trails off, biting her lip, until he nods encouragingly. “You want a way to make the iron hold the magic better, without impacting its efficiency when you actually want to _use_ it?”

“Correct,” he confirms, glancing briefly away from her to scour the area in one second and offer Harry a small, reassuring smile. “So I don’t still need to hold the magic for the small time that I _want_ to be using some of it, do I?”

Shaking her head, Hermione considers it.

“You want something that you can… turn off, I guess?” she suggests cautiously, emboldened by the approval in his stare. “So maybe you want some kind of other piece of magic to act on the iron that you can then remove for a bit – maybe with some kind of action of its own linked to deactivating it briefly? Or…”

“Exactly that,” he cuts her off gently, which she is glad of; she doesn’t actually know what else she could have come up with, and he seems to know that. “But imagine it was an emergency situation. I have a portkey made of iron, so that it transfers magic efficiently – it will work quicker than some other portkeys, and because of this magic that I have acting on it, I could have charged it up far in advance, so there is no need to be concerned with that. Now, there is still a definite problem in having to, for example, give one deactivation phrase for the magic on the iron, then an activation phrase for the portkey function itself. It does not take long to cast the Killing Curse.”

Dudley’s head snaps around to stare at them at that, his eyes wide, but he relaxes after a moment and turns back to his conversation with Harry as they start up a vaguely familiar driveway.

“Can you…?”

No, Hermione doesn’t want to say it. She hates being wrong, and she has absolutely no idea if it would work or not.

“Probably,” Salazar prompts her gently. “But if not, that is something to talk about nonetheless.”

Swallowing, Hermione nods.

“Can you make them the same phrase?” she manages, barely above a whisper.

Humming, he tilts his head to the side.

“Can you tell me any problems with doing that?”

Desperately, Hermione wracks her brain for an answer. A problem with using the same phrase for the deactivation of one enchantment and the activation of another… She feels like there should be one – from the way he has asked that question, if nothing else – but she can’t think of anything.

“No?” he checks, and she shakes her head reluctantly. “There isn’t, so long as you _know_ that is what you’ve done.”

_Oh._

As if he can tell what she is thinking, Salazar smiles as he catches the front door in the process of swinging shut behind Harry and Dudley, holding it open for her.

“Do you think you can tell me why it might be a problem if you do _not_ know that the phrase is for both pieces of magic – assuming that you have set it up properly, so that the portkey function will not activate without the deactivation of the magical containment occurring first?”

That, Hermione is fairly sure that she knows the answer to, and can reply promptly as she takes her shoes off.

“The magic might not work properly if the right intention isn’t there,” she tells him, glancing down the hallway to find Petunia waiting with what almost looks like a small smile.

“Exactly – particularly when you consider that by its nature of dual magical purpose, there is a good deal more complexity involved than in a regular portkey,” Salazar declares, nodding, then holds out the portkey itself to her. “Examine that when you have the time. I’d like to know if you can work out what the magic itself is, and how it works.”

Carefully, Hermione accepts the circular band and slips it into her pocket for the time being.

“The activation phrase is in Gaelic,” Salazar adds as an afterthought, “So you will not need to worry about finding yourself whisked back down the road again.”

Nervous, she manages a smile and tries not to think about that. If it did somehow happen, she doesn’t know the outside of this house well enough to be able to find her way back, yet.

“Ignore Salazar,” Harry announces, reappearing from behind Petunia. “He’s just teasing you. Do you want me to show you your room?”

“Do I get to say hello, first?” Petunia asks him pointedly, her smile turning strained when Harry offers her only a stiff nod. “It’s good to see you again, Hermione.”

“And you, Petunia,” Hermione replies politely, relaxing when Petunia only bestows upon her a more genuine smile.

“Come on,” Harry tells her as soon as the not-quite-awkward greetings are over with, jerking his head towards the stairs, and she is still all too happy to follow.

“Remember the rules, Harry!” Salazar calls after them, just the faintest hint of sharpness in his tone. “None of your friends with only you or Dudley unless the door is open!”

Hermione almost trips on the first step.

The first night at Harry and Dudley’s is surprisingly relaxing, Hermione finds. She spends most of it upstairs with her friends, talking and playing boardgames as the tension that followed her out of Hogwarts slowly dissolves from within her chest. Petunia is still as nice as she remembers and, from what little she saw of the woman’s interaction with Salazar on arrival, there doesn’t seem to be much conflict between the pair.

Even when Vernon arrives home, and the animosity between him and Salazar becomes painfully clear, Hermione finds herself settled enough not to worry too much. Perhaps it is the realisation that it doesn’t seem as volatile a situation as it apparently has been in the past, with Salazar content to ignore Vernon, and Dudley’s father much the same apart from the occasional dark glare – or perhaps it is just that she doesn’t have to sit awkwardly through it alone, because Harry and Dudley are always there to distract her.

Whatever the case, she sleeps well through the night and wakes up surprisingly rested, the clock reading 06:00 where it blinks on the nightstand. Normally, she might expect to have been awake for several hours by now, so this is… nice.

At seven, she follows Harry down to the kitchen for breakfast, Petunia and Salazar both already present. There, she hits her first stumbling block. Last night, she was too distracted by her worries over the situation between Salazar and Vernon to care much about dinner, but there is nothing to distract her from the stress of breakfast and eating in front of other people this morning, and no way to excuse herself to eat somewhere private.

Hesitantly, she settles herself into a chair and stares at the assorted cereals before her, trying to quash the nerves that buzz in her stomach.

“Alright?” Harry whispers, nudging her gently, and sees right through her nod. “There’s something here you can eat, right?”

“Yes,” she assures him at once, though she hasn’t actually dared to look at what the packets on the table contain; it won’t be exactly the same as she is used to, and that will be difficult enough, as stupid as she knows it is to be worried about that.

_Merlin_ , but she hates eating around other people, and she will never again take for granted how much the constant buzz of conversation in the Great Hall helps with that.

For a moment, Harry eyes her, but seems to understand that there isn’t really anything he can do to help. A few seconds after he turns back to his breakfast, however, Hermione becomes all too aware of Salazar watching her thoughtfully, fingers curled in the pages of _The Daily Prophet_.

“Harry,” he announces, drawing his gaze away, but a flick of one thumb shifts one of the boxes of cereal closer to her as Harry looks up. “Once you’ve finished with your breakfast and brushed your teeth, I’d like you to come and find me in my office, just to let me know.”

Cautiously, Hermione takes the box, then looks down at the bowl that Harry had offered her when they first entered the kitchen. _Alright_.

“Why?” Harry asks beside her, frowning.

“I’d like you to meditate for an hour,” Salazar explains as Hermione pours herself some of the cereal, happy to realise that it is nothing more than a simple muesli. “I would rather not be occupied once you are done – that should be the best time to take a look at your head.”

Carefully, Hermione sets the cereal box back down.

“Is that the thing you were looking for books for earlier in the term?” she asks Harry from behind it, reaching for the milk as she does so.

“Yeah,” Harry sighs. “Salazar doesn’t know what it is either, so he’s going to take a look.”

Curious, Hermione turns her focus to Salazar, vaguely aware of Petunia slipping out of the room behind her.

“How do you do that?”

“I’ll be using a form of Legilimency,” Salazar answers easily, setting his newspaper down as he crosses one leg over the other. “This kind is specifically useful for the examination of others’ mindscapes. I will not be looking into Harry’s consciousness, nor will I be passing anything over to him, so it is certainly the most suited.”

Harry cocks his head, the action just about visible over the cereal packet as Hermione starts to eat.

“I didn’t know there _were_ different kinds of Legilimency,” he remarks, and Salazar nods.

“They are very subtly different in technique – the vast majority of Legilimens likely are not well enough versed in the art to have need to distinguish them.”

“What, because they can’t do any of them well enough anyway?” Harry snorts; Salazar’s lips twitch, and he doesn’t deny it. “Right, if I’m done with breakfast now, can I just say that I’ll start meditating in five minutes?”

Salazar checks his watch, then nods.

“I’ll come to find you at half-eight,” he replies, then turns his attention to Hermione once Harry has left the room. “When you are ready, would you mind coming to meet me in my office? It is the furthest door on your right at the top of the stairs.”

Quickly, Hermione nods and swallows.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she promises.

Satisfied, Salazar folds his copy of _The Prophet_ then stands and turns for the door, leaving Hermione to finish her breakfast in blessed peace. Already, she is dreading the rest of the meals for the next six and a half days, but she will work something out, or somehow endure it. There is, after all, nothing else to be done.

Twenty-five to eight finds Hermione hovering, strangely nervous, outside the door that Salazar said leads to his office – _definitely_ said leads to his office. _The furthest door on your right at the top of the stairs._ It is hardly an ambiguous direction, and it isn’t as though anyone will be upset if she makes a mistake (but it _will_ be embarrassing, and Vernon still makes her wary).

Drawing in a deep breath, because if she hesitates any longer then she’ll be later than the time she agreed to, Hermione lifts her hand to knock, relaxing when Salazar calls her in at once.

“Please take a seat,” he tells her, swinging his boots from the desk and waving to the chair on the other side of it. “Have you had a chance to look at that portkey, yet?”

Sheepish, she shakes her head as he sets his book to the side, but he only smiles in easy understanding.

“That is quite alright,” he assures her. “It is only for a time when you have nothing else to do. For now… I’m going to offer you something, which may or may not be needed – and I am not making any assumptions as to _why_ it might or might not be needed, understand? But the offer will stand nonetheless, and there is only one condition should you choose to take me up on it at any point.”

Slowly, cautiously, Hermione nods. That introduction alone sounds distinctly ominous, but Salazar is still watching her almost as calmly as he had when they were talking about the portkey yesterday, only the faintest hint of concern in his stare. Admittedly, she isn’t used to being under such focused attention, but he glances elsewhere often enough that it doesn’t feel overly uncomfortable, his fingers twirling a _pencil_ , of all things, through the air all the while.

“From six until eight o’clock in the morning, twelve noon until one o’clock and six until seven o’clock in the evening,” he enunciates clearly, gaze settling solely on her once more, “My office will be available if you’d like somewhere to eat in peace. I cannot promise you that I will not be around, but I can teach you to erect basic privacy wards if you would like.”

Hermione opens her mouth to deny any need of that whatsoever, realises that not only is this exactly what she _does_ need for the week, but also that he probably wouldn’t believe otherwise, and closes her mouth again. After a moment, she opens it once more.

“What’s the one condition?” she presses cautiously, and he nods his approval, the pencil stilling briefly in his fingers before he taps it on the desk.

“The condition is that you _do_ eat,” he explains, firm but not sharp.

Hermione considers protesting, or assuring him that, at least, _that_ condition is unnecessary, but decides against it.

“Why?” she asks instead.

He does not ask exactly what she means by that.

“I have had students who have experienced discomfort surrounding food or eating before,” he responds simply. “The reasons vary, and I rarely consider it my place to press, but that does not mean that I cannot or will not offer support.”

Slowly, Hermione nods. She doesn’t particularly want to delve any further into that answer, she decides, so instead she turns back to an earlier part of the conversation.

“Those privacy wards?” she ventures.

At once, he straightens up, reaching for a sheet of normal, non-magical paper and beckoning her around to his side of the desk.

“These are some of the most basic wards that can be erected,” he explains as he starts to draw. “They require at most two runes, and no ward anchor, and the runes need not even be written with any kind of permanence, provided that you centre the wards only on yourself…”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math. Am I drowning in the last few questions of my vacation work, which are obviously the questions that I'm finding hardest - hence why I still have to do them? Yes. Yes, I am. I don't even know when my tutors want the work handed in, but man... fuck five-variable simultaneous equations. It's also entirely too frustrating when I get to the very end of a proof, through all the complex stuff... and then the result won't fall out. Basically, the best bit of today has been my old Sixth Form's instagram video about their fundraiser over lockdown.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you're all well, and have a chapter:

Harry emerges from his meditation to the sound of his alarm, which he reaches quickly over to silence before pushing up from his seated position with a groan to stretch, lacing his fingers over his head and leaning back to crack his spine. Honestly, he’s far more nervous about this than he entirely wants to admit, though he supposes that he must be entitled to at least a degree of anxiety. It’s hardly every day that someone has their mindscape checked out in case the weird evil blob inside it turns out to be a problem.

And the last thing he needs is to have an extra little worry buzzing about his head that Salazar won’t be impressed with the state of his Occlumency, or his mind itself, but he can’t help it. Master Snape says that his Occlumency is good, he reminds himself, and Master Snape is both an expert and not the sort of person to lie just to make someone else feel better.

This is going to be absolutely fine.

A sharp knock rings through the room, and he jumps, biting back a curse. Being twitchy won’t help anything either.

“May I come in?” Salazar asks, Harry crossing the room to open his door for his uncle so that he has something to do. “…I rather hoped the meditation might calm you.”

Sheepish, Harry shrugs, then drops down onto his bed when Salazar points him to it.

“I’m just nervous,” he mumbles, to a sympathetic nod.

“And that is fine,” Salazar answers, looking Harry carefully over. “All I am asking of you is that you sit still for as long as you can and meet my eyes. I am not in need of a staring contest, but please try to avoid excessive blinking.”

A flick of Salazar’s fingers conjures a chair for him to sit on, then Harry’s uncle leans forward, stare fixed intensely on Harry’s own face.

“So long as you do not try to hold me out, you should not feel much.”

Trying not to fidget, Harry meets Salazar eyes – the same bright shade of green that he shares – and catches the faint motion of Salazar exhaling in the bottom of his vision. For a moment, nothing seems to happen, then Harry catches it – the faintest of tingling in the back of his head, strengthening to a buzz as Salazar draws in a sudden breath and jolts slightly where he sits.

“Salazar?” Harry has to ask, a little anxious.

“One moment,” Salazar replies immediately, sharper than Harry expected. “Stay _very_ still…”

Harry holds his breath, every muscle tense, not daring to move a millimetre as he continues to match his uncle’s stare. For a second, silence reigns beyond Harry’s head, then Salazar bursts from his seat, features contorting with an emotion that Harry can’t even begin to interpret.

“ _Fuck_.”

Alarmed, Harry opens his mouth to ask what the problem is, but Salazar is already gone, only the crack of his apparition echoing around the bedroom in his wake. Something is clearly wrong – _very_ , horribly wrong. The last time Salazar left like that was when he started to get suspicious about the Sirius Black situation, and Harry doesn’t like that this is the reaction he gets _now_ – not when it’s about his mind, about what could be wrong with it.

When another snap rings through the room, Harry jumps, almost scrambling for his wand before he remembers that only Salazar can apparate into the house.

“– the problem, Salazar? Salazar! You can’t just –”

“Quirinus, _please_ ,” Salazar grits out, even as Harry starts to register that his uncle has brought someone with him. “This is incredibly urgent – it concerns our research.”

Quirrell blinks, apparently spotting Harry at the same time as Harry realises that it is him Salazar has brought along.

“…and your nephew?” the ex-professor offers carefully, but Salazar clearly isn’t in the mood for anything other than complete seriousness.

“Harry, stay still,” he orders, already reaching out to rest a finger carefully below Harry’s scar. “Quirinus, look at this.”

Quirrell sighs, but leans in all the same, and there is nothing for Harry to do but sit and wait, all too conscious of the tight press of Salazar’s lips and the now-familiar flick of his uncle’s fingers towards the door that comes with the setting up of privacy wards. Clearly, Salazar doesn’t want anyone else hearing this.

“What am I looking for?” Quirrell mutters under his breath, twisting half-towards Salazar with a visible frown.

Salazar’s eyes flicker briefly down to meet Harry’s; Harry has never seen his uncle so torn, indecision flickering through his eyes before he seems to come to a decision.

“What I’ve had you researching,” he hisses to Quirrell, who stiffens at once. “Do you think you can remove it, or do I take him to the goblins?”

“Me?” Quirrell demands, apparently horrified as Harry sits in silence, listening to a conversation that he has no chance of following. “Salazar, what the fuck do you think _I_ can –”

“If you think I didn’t tear through every last drop of information in your head before I took you from the goblins, you are _sorely_ mistaken,” Salazar snaps back. “ _Rituals_ , Quirinus – I don’t care if they’re legal! Do you know any that would help – that you think you could perform?”

“ _Maybe_?” Quirrell retorts, squeezing his eyes shut and lifting a hand to rub at his forehead before recommencing his examination of Harry’s forehead. “Fuck, Salazar – give me a moment to _think_.”

“Salazar?” Harry tries quietly as Quirrell nudges his head from side to side and hums in thought, but his uncle only holds up a hand, watching Quirrell intently and, it seems, biting at his knuckles. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

“You need to tell him,” Quirrell mutters without glancing away from Harry. “How’s keeping him in the dark going to help?”

Salazar falters, scrubbing his palms over his face and nodding, the breath he forces out shaky and almost choked.

“Yes, fine, you’re right – just… _Fuck_.”

Whatever the problem is, whatever has Salazar so tense, he doesn’t even seem able to give voice to it now, merely staring at Harry with wide eyes, terrified in a way Harry has never seen him before.

“I’ll tell him,” Quirrell announces. “Salazar? Salazar, back away and give us some space. I’ll tell him.”

Nodding jerkily, Salazar stumbles back towards the door, and Harry watches his uncle go, trying to work out how much he should be panicking. Whatever’s going on, Salazar does not look happy about it at all, and Harry has never – not once – seen his uncle like this.

At least Quirrell is calm.

“Harry?” the man in question asks steadily, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Eyes on me, please. Ignore Salazar – he has a habit of getting worked up at inconvenient moments.”

Harry’s incredulous laugh sounds alien to his own ears, and it takes so much effort to drag his gaze away from Salazar’s white face and shaking hands.

“Good,” Quirrell tells him, and the hand on Harry’s shoulder squeezes gently. “Now, I’m going to warn you – this _will_ sound worrying, but I promise you that we can sort it out, and it won’t have any long term effects. Even if I can’t do the ritual myself, there will be goblins in Gringotts who can. Alright?”

Slowly, Harry nods.

“Good,” Quirrell repeats. “Listen to me closely, Harry. Has Salazar told you about horcruxes?”

 _Horcruxes_? What do horcruxes have to do with what’s going on in Harry’s mindscape – never mind with his scar as well? What do bits of torn-off soul stored away have to do with foul thing that…?

_Oh, fuck, no…_

“I’m a _horcrux_?” he hears himself yelp, high-pitched and foreign as he stares at Quirrell, hoping for a hint of denial, something to tell him that the leap his mind has just made is ridiculous, ludicrous, utterly out of the question…

Quirrell swears under his breath, eyes slipping closed for a moment, then nods. Behind him, Salazar seems to have taken to wringing his hands in silent agitation.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ – but it’s only your scar,” the ex-professor clarifies, as horror starts to creep through Harry’s bones, stealing his breath. “Not the whole of you, alright? It’s just lodged in your scar, and that _can_ be removed – and destroyed afterwards. And then you’ll be fine.”

Harry had no idea that horcruxes could be put into living things – into _people_. He has a bit of You-Know-Who’s soul – the soul of the _murderous psychopath who killed his parents_ – lodged into his forehead, maybe even helping to keep You-Know-Who alive, and that’s the terrifying, evil, _wrong_ thing in his head.

Is it getting harder to breathe, or is it just his imagination? Quirrell seems fine, so maybe it’s just in Harry’s head – but that isn’t actually comforting at all.

“Harry, looking at me, please…?” Quirrell requests, then nods when Harry meets his eyes. “Good. With your permission, I’d like to use the Stunning Charm on you, because that will mean less distress for everyone involved. Everything will be a lot quicker and easier if you’re unconscious while we work, and I promise you’ll be in safe hands.”

Swallowing, Harry closes his eyes and takes a moment to think it over.

“And when I wake up, this will be gone?” he checks, and immediately dislikes the way Quirrell hesitates.

“So long as we do not need to wake you as part of removing it,” Quirrell promises, which relaxes Harry at once; of course, if Quirrell isn’t sure what needs to be done yet, then that makes perfect sense.

Still, there’s one more thing Harry has to ask, though he doesn’t want to voice it aloud in front of Salazar, who seems more of a wreck by the second. Clearly noticing where Harry’s gaze has wandered off to again, Quirrell twists to stare at Salazar as well, then sighs.

“Salazar?” he calls. “Wait outside. You’re stressing everyone out more by being here.”

For a moment, Salazar hovers, then nods in silence and slips out of the room. Harry waits until the door is firmly closed, trying his very best not to think about the fact that he has never seen Salazar lose his cool like this over _anything_ , then turns his attention back to his old Defence professor.

“Will I _definitely_ wake up from this?” he demands – or tries to, but his voice sounds too weak even to his own ears.

“Yes,” Quirrell tells him firmly. “You have my word on that, Harry – as a member of Salazar’s House.”

Silent, Harry stares at the man and tries to assess his sincerity. Salazar trusts Quirrell – enough to send him to talk to Sirius Black but, even more so, enough to listen to his instructions just now – and that, beyond everything that Harry sees in Quirrell’s face, is enough. If he doesn’t survive what’s to come, for whatever reason, then it isn’t going to make a difference whether he’s awake or not, and if Quirrell says that it will be easier with him out of it…

“Alright,” he whispers, unable to raise his voice to any greater volume.

Nodding in reassurance, Quirrell lifts his wand and murmurs softly,

“ _Stupefy_.”

Only when Salazar’s nephew is settled comfortably on what is, presumably, the boy’s own bed, does Quirinus take a moment to breathe and assure himself of his composure, then poke his head out of the room to find Salazar pacing up and down the landing. For a moment, Quirinus watches his friend – and Lord – in silence, taking in the shaking of Salazar’s hands even when they aren’t being wrung desperately, the heaving of Salazar’s chest, the panicked flush that has spread across his otherwise ghostly face. Clearly, Salazar is too caught up in his own distress to have noticed Quirinus at all – or perhaps he is avoiding paying any attention to Harry’s door in case it makes him worse, which might be a wise decision.

“Salazar?” Quirinus prompts quietly, jerking his head back into the room when Salazar’s head snaps up and around. “He’s under the Stunning Charm and several stasis spells – though I don’t think we’re actually in any rush regardless.”

“Not in any rush?” Salazar demands, hoarse and almost furious as Quirinus closes the door gently; the anger might have been intimidating if Salazar weren’t so obviously a wreck. “He has a piece of – of –”

“We have enough time,” Quirinus interrupts, “To get you calm, at any rate. You panicking is hardly helping _anyone_.”

“I know that,” Salazar bites out, seeming to make an effort to still his hands, but it clearly doesn’t help anything. “Harry is _everything_ I have left! I cannot –”

“You’re not going to lose him,” Quirinus assures him steadily. “I think I know a ritual, and even if I’m wrong, or if I can’t perform it… The goblins can handle this, I’m sure. We’ll just get him to Potter Manor and go from there.”

Salazar is now practically vibrating with the urge to wring his hands, his anxiety skyrocketing with his desire to suppress it, and Quirinus cannot quite smooth the frown from his face.

“Salazar,” he murmurs, quiet but firm as he drags Salazar’s attention back to him. “Harry is going to be _fine_. You’ve had me researching horcruxes long enough – and did you see any damage when you looked through his mindscape?”

Slowly, Salazar shakes his head, seeming to calm incrementally.

“So there isn’t going to be any lasting impact,” Quirinus reasons. “The horcrux itself can be removed and destroyed, and that will be it; Harry will be fine, and we’ll have one less piece of Riddle’s soul to worry about.”

For a long moment, Salazar merely stares in silence, apparently soaking in Quirinus’s words. Quirinus hesitates, waiting until he thinks that Salazar might be near enough stable – if still trembling from head to toe, eyes wide and horrified – to tug his friend in for a firm embrace.

“Stunning Charm,” Salazar mutters into his shoulder, hands rising slowly to grip at the back of Quirinus’s robes. “Not a potion – to avoid it interfering with the ritual?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Quirinus agrees. “Some rituals are fine with that sort of thing…”

“But others will not react well,” Salazar concludes; Quirinus can feel his nod. “Alright, I – _Fuck_. Just…”

“I know,” Quirinus soothes him. “He’s your last living family. You care about him. You’re worried about this.”

“I do not think I could have reacted worse,” Salazar croaks, still with his face pressed into Quirinus’s shoulder.

“You could have done nothing,” Quirinus comes up with, which earns him the faint sound of dry amusement that he was hoping for. “Yes, your emotional reaction was hardly ideal when it came to the fore, but it was manageable.”

“Manageable,” Salazar snorts. “You had to send me out of the room. Harry shouldn’t have had to see any of that.”

“You left when I asked,” Quirinus reminds him at once, then pauses to consider Salazar’s last words and how best to respond to them. “Salazar, have you considered… that perhaps Harry’s ideas of you being somehow perfect are transferring onto you? That you feel a need to present an image of perfection around him – to live up to those standards?”

Salazar only deflates against Quirinus’s chest, apparently either unable or unwilling to offer a verbal response to that. That, Quirinus thinks, is answer enough.

Most of the time, Salazar would say that he is at peace with his condition – that, although he might be struggling with some of the trials that have been wrought indirectly from it, the instability of his magic is itself no issue for him. Even if he didn’t have the amulet to reign in the outward signs of his difficulties, his unruly magic is a part of him; it is _his_.

Sitting in silence in the basement of Potter Manor, watching Quirinus prepare the ritual circle with Harry in the centre, knowing that there is nothing he can do to help when rituals of this kind require such immensely detailed fine-tuning of one’s magic, it is impossible to ignore the faint wish that he could be _normal_. It is a foolish wish, and certainly he would lose more than he could ever hope to gain were it his reality instead of this, but that does not have much bearing on his emotions now, when there is nothing he can do to help Harry.

Quirinus is right, no matter what Salazar might have discussed a few weeks ago with Petunia; it might be beneficial to leave Harry to look after himself through some minor problems, but Salazar does not know if he could bring himself to stay out of it – to let Harry fend for himself even for the sake of learning. Unable to help Harry now, it is almost as though he has let Harry down in some way, an attitude which is not the slightest bit useful when there is nothing he can do, never mind when he is fully aware that Harry has some equally ridiculous ideas pertaining to _him_.

“Are you certain that you know what you are doing?” Salazar settles for checking as Quirinus undresses and changes into clothing that they can trust to be entirely unaffected by magic. “And that you can do it correctly?”

“Without distractions?” Quirinus returns pointedly, and Salazar feels his lips twist with amusement despite himself. “Yes.”

Settling back, Salazar observes his friend in silence and is pleased to note exactly how much confidence Quirinus has gained in the last year or so. When he first came under Salazar’s protection, even simple eye-contact was unheard of; now, Quirinus has absolutely no problem with telling Salazar what he thinks.

“Have you examined the horcrux all you need to?” Quirinus asks suddenly, turning to eye Salazar carefully. “I know you’ve been keeping track of how much of Riddle’s soul we’ve seen.”

Salazar nods in easy confirmation; he imprinted that particular piece of information into his mind well before the panic set in, filed away along with his impressions of the other horcruxes they have seen to piece together at a later date.

“Does the ritual destroy it, or simply remove it?”

“I’m stacking two rituals,” Quirinus admits, wincing as Salazar’s hands tighten automatically on the arms of his chair. “I know what I’m doing, Salazar – you’re the one who said you looked through my entire head earlier. This is hardly the first time I’ve stacked rituals.”

Biting down on the comment that this _is_ the first time that Quirinus has performed any rituals at all involving Soul Magic – introducing doubt into Quirinus’s psyche beforehand will not be to anyone’s benefit – Salazar forces a nod and watches Quirinus step past the outer ring of tightly-packed runes; now that he is looking, he can see how the arrays weave together in the distinctive pattern of a double-stack.

Drawing in a breath, Quirinus nods, then steps past the second ring. There is no longer any chance of aborting these rituals without risking some hideous consequence or activating the failsafe, and Salazar would rather not see Quirinus knocked out for the best part of a day before another attempt can be made. Already, the air is thickening with the heavy press of Soul Magic, crawling over Salazar’s skin and slithering down his spine, setting a distinctive, visceral unease into his bones.

Many confuse Magic of Death and the Soul, Salazar finds, until they feel Soul Magic for themselves and realise exactly how different the two are. Society at large might find Death Magic distasteful, but at least it is _clean_. Soul Magic reeks of danger, twisted in its very nature, and Salazar has never liked it.

The faint glow of magic that lights in Quirinus’s discarded robes is almost a relief; Salazar recognises the simple enchantment weave from metres away as one of his own, set up for long-distance transfer of short messages. Carefully, he stands and crosses to pick up the flat disc of metal, flipping it twice and feeding a small strand of magic in to read the message – _I will take the Veritaserum now_.

This is horrendous timing, Salazar reflects as he examines the metal token, the pair of which rests in the hands of a convicted criminal in Scotland. Black has not met Salazar as Lord Slytherin, having been communicating solely with Quirinus, but the ritual will not be complete for many hours yet, and there is no telling how Black might react to such a substantial delay – never mind that Quirinus would then need to rest for some time before even considering a journey up to Scotland.

Briefly, Salazar glances over to the ritual circle, considering Quirinus as the man works over Harry, lips moving in a silent chant – always the worst, in Salazar’s opinion, and not only because those rituals tend to be the most reliant on the minutiae – and weighing up his options. There is no questioning that he will have to go, no matter how little he wishes to leave at the moment or how much effort it will take to succeed in settling his nerves. He cannot risk an adverse reaction before the Veritaserum is administered should Black take offense to meeting with Salazar Potter, either, which means a meeting as Lord Slytherin.

Wonderful – a meeting between a (likely) falsely-accused ‘criminal’ with a definite distrust of authority and, according to Severus, a distinct grudge against Hogwarts’ Slytherin House at large, and the masked Lord Slytherin who cannot afford to so much as give his name, reveal his wand, or release his magical aura. This will be an utter nightmare even without the added pressure of Salazar having to contend with his own destabilised emotions.

Turning his eyes slowly back to the metal disc, Salazar starts from the room, unwilling to perform any further magic so close to the ongoing ritual; reading a message is one thing, but disguising every aspect of his identity and apparating to Scotland is quite another. In theory, he would have been fine to do anything he wanted so long as he did not cross the first ring, but he does not intend to risk it when Soul Magic is involved.

The only question remaining is whether he should warn Black that it will not be Quirinus coming and risk the man abandoning the meeting, or surprise him and potentially engender further distrust. It will have to be the first option.

 _Quirinus is busy; I will be there soon_ , he sends down the connection, ignoring the near-immediate reply of _Who are you?_

Black will find out soon enough, as soon as Salazar has left a note for Quirinus in case the meeting takes far longer than expected, and finished preparing for this.

Fortunately, despite the lack of response, Black does not seem to be moving, his presence rooted within a metre of the spot where Quirinus met him the first time, and he is still there two minutes later, when Salazar is ready to leave. Magical aura drawn in; wands hidden deep within his robes; hood up with its usual enchantments to disguise impressions of his face or voice; Lordship ring in place. Drawing in a lungful of clean air, Salazar reaches for his Occlumency and steps.

At once, fierce wind slams into him, roaring across the mountain-side, but he braces against it with a flicker of his fingers to shield him from the rest of the rough Highlands climate, turning to face the man who waits for him.

“You’re Lord Slytherin,” Sirius Black observes gruffly, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he hovers with wary apprehension in the mouth of his cave; clearly, Azkaban has not improved the lack of manners that Salazar remembers from childhood, though he suspects that they might be the result of a long-term rebellion against a stifling upbringing.

Traditional customs are perhaps not the sort of thing to be insisting on at the moment, no matter how much Salazar dislikes the prospect of foregoing them.

“I am,” he agrees steadily, watching Black tense in recognition of the magical modulation. “My apologies for turning up without much warning; Quirinus is occupied presently, and I thought it best not to wait.”

“You figured I could change my mind if you did,” Black translates, flat and unimpressed.

“I did,” Salazar confirms, holding up the Veritaserum in his hand; he did not wish to keep it in his pocket when reaching for it might then alarm Black.

Better to allow Black sight of his hands at all times.

For a moment, Black considers the vial in silence, seeming to weigh up his options, then jerks his head into the cave and steps inside without another word. Salazar follows, more than willing to cede control of the situation to the other man, and moves carefully away from the entrance once inside; Black might be fully capable of apparition, if his movements in and out of the land around Hogwarts are anything to go by, but that does not change a human’s instinctive reaction to a visible impression of being trapped.

“I’m not taking that straight away,” Black warns, already flicking his – presumably stolen – wand at a rock then sitting. “I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” Salazar replies simply, settling easily on the floor with the help of a quick warming charm. “Though you say that as though you trust Quirinus.”

Black’s eyes narrow, neither a denial nor a confirmation, then he inhales sharply, and his glower deepens.

“Soul Magic,” he bites out, knuckles whitening around his wand. “Why the fuck do you smell of _Soul Magic_?”

Salazar remains outwardly relaxed and inwardly unsurprised; Black was raised in a family known for the outright questionable use of magic. It is only expected that he can see the taint of Soul Magic clinging to Salazar at the moment, though he might not necessarily be able to tell that it is temporary.

“Quirinus is helping a close ally of ours with a problem,” he explains. “The magic is simply clinging – it will fade with time.”

Black does not look particularly comforted, but that is fine, because Salazar has been taking his initial response as time to consider a substantial gamble.

“You’ll know of Lord Potter, of course?” he prods, and Black’s lips twist in silent aggravation as the man nods. “Yes… He asked me to take a look at his mindscape for him. Quite horrifically, it appears that his scar is in fact a previously undiscovered horcrux. Quirinus is removing it for him.”

“A horcrux,” Black echoes, apparently – and understandably – happy to gloss over the inherent trust involved in Harry asking Salazar to examine his mindscape. “A fucking – You know, I only ever saw that sort of thing mentioned in my family library _once_ when I was a kid. How the fuck does a kid end up with something like that in his head?”

“Tom Riddle,” Salazar returns, more than content to keep feeding Black information for the time being; if Black shows signs of having lied to Quirinus in previous meetings, then Salazar is more than confident in his ability to subdue and trap the other given their current location. “Horrible, it might be, but I cannot claim to be truly surprised, myself.”

Black’s lips twist with unhappy agreement, and Salazar eyes him closely, taking in every scrap of non-verbal information that Black does not seem able to hide before he continues.

“Harry will be fine.”

At once, Black twitches.

“You’re on first-name terms with my godson,” he announces flatly, failing to hide the wistful glint from his eyes.

“We are very close allies,” Salazar replies, then drives the knife home. “Perhaps, one day, you might be as well.”

Black’s scowl is immediate, but his eyes drop back to the Veritaserum in Salazar’s hands. It is only a matter of time before Black commits to trusting Salazar enough to take it, now. He has far too much to gain, and he has now been reminded of that very fact.

“Your underling says you just want to help,” Black grinds out, glancing up towards Salazar’s face for only a second before turning back to the flask, jaw shifting. “I still think that’s bullshit.”

“ _Quirinus_ might have failed to mention that I have my own personal motivation, but I doubt he thought it mattered,” Salazar returns, catching the grudging respect that flashes through Black’s eyes at the correction. “Do you care why I want the man who truly betrayed James and Lily Potter to be punished? Or is it enough to know that I do?”

“What happens if I take that?” Black asks instead of replying, one hand waved stiffly in the direction of the vial. “You get answers you can trust, then what?”

“Then I have access to Pettigrew and plenty of reach in the Ministry. It will take perhaps a few weeks to arrange a trial for you, and I will hold Pettigrew over that time. Your innocence and his guilt will be easy to prove with appropriate testimony and his status as a living being, and then you will be a free man and Pettigrew will pay.”

Slowly, Black nods.

“How do I know that’s really Veritaserum?” he presses after a moment’s consideration.

Tilting his head, Salazar considers the best response to that and settles on truth.

“Do you know how Quirinus and I know where you are?” he asks, nodding when Black shakes his head reluctantly. “I have control of the wards of Hogwarts.”

Black stiffens, but does not interrupt.

“I have since weaved an extension over Hogsmeade, including the surrounding lands,” Salazar continues, watching realisation start to dawn as he tugs on the aspect of it that monitors Black at just the right point for Black himself to feel it. “It was originally to ensure Harry’s safety; now, I have specialised it to tell me exactly where you are at all times. Beyond that, though, the Hogwarts wards – and as such, their extension – allow for an instantaneous lockdown. No one in, no one out, no one so much as moves or performs a single piece of magic with the exception of myself, so long as I have the strength to activate it and don’t mind disrupting everyone else to a significant degree.”

Silent, Black examines him. Salazar knows that he has won, now, if there _is_ a winner in this game of sorts.

“You don’t need a potion to do whatever you want to me here,” James’s old best friend concludes, nodding. “Long as you’re at full strength.”

“At the very least, I don’t need to _trick_ you into taking one,” Salazar corrects, “And I would say that my strength is reasonable.”

As the wind howls beyond the cave, Black shifts in restless silence, eyes glued to the Veritaserum as Salazar sets it carefully on the ground between them and waits. Whatever else Black has become since the last time they met, Quirinus’s reports have made it clear that there is still a distinct deficit in the area of impulse control. Indeed, not ten seconds later, Black snatches up the flask with a low snarl and uncorks it, tipping it back in one.

“Ask away,” he snaps as his eyes begin to glaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh - and Week 0 of Hilary Term starts tomorrow, so although I have enough chapters to get through several more weeks... Well, I can't promise that we'll still have a regular update schedule in a month, but I'll bring that up if it comes to it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math, a a chàirdean! I hope you're all well.
> 
> Just a quick thing on the last chapter - I've adjusted a few things, the most notable one being that somehow completely forgot to specify that the ritual is taking place at Potter Manor. So there's that. If you're reading the chapter from scratch now, it should be clear, but... Yeah. Just forgot to mention it. Sorry about that...
> 
> Whatever the case, I hope you enjoy!

If nothing else, Salazar does not think that he could have hoped for a better distraction from his anxiety over whatever Quirinus is doing with Harry. Unfortunately, it does little – if anything – to help his emotional state, his frustration and anger growing with each passing minute; it takes almost depressingly little time to cover Black’s story from start to finish, all while Salazar reflects that this is all that was needed to ensure that the real traitor paid for what he did.

Black swallows the antidote as soon as Salazar hands it over, grimacing at the after-effects of the Veritaserum before turning an expectant but still distrustful stare on Salazar.

“Well?” he demands. “Is that it?”

Slowly, Salazar nods, but takes a moment longer to rid himself of the bitterness that remains. Black might not have said as much, but Salazar strongly suspects that Dumbledore had a hand in this – possibly with the motivation of depriving Harry of a magical guardian or perhaps for some yet unseen reason – and he doubts that Black is entirely unaware of that, even if the man does not wish to admit it to himself.

“That is it,” he agrees finally, accepting the flasks back when Black holds them out. “It will not take me long to retrieve Pettigrew, though there is no particular rush. If you are in need of a place to stay once you are no longer on the run, I can assist with that.”

Black eyes him warily.

“I’d be Lord Black – my family has properties.”

“Do you truly wish to live in them?” Salazar counters. “Harry’s relatives have room for another adult, and I imagine he would be happy to have the chance to spend some time with you.”

No matter what Black thinks of Salazar, it is far more likely to work in Salazar’s favour than in Vernon’s, if Salazar remembers the dating histories of James’s friends correctly. Hesitating, Black seems to mull it over in silence but doesn’t offer any direct response, instead turning his full attention to Salazar.

“You knew James and Lily, didn’t you?” he asks, twisting his wand in his fingers.

The action is not a threat, nor a sign of caution, but rather an expression of his gradual relaxation.

Salazar could be truthful, here. At this very moment, he could tell Black exactly how he knows James, offer at least a vague outline of an explanation, and Black would likely accept it eventually. Alternatively, Salazar could delay a conversation of this sort for a much later – although still inevitable – date, but the loss of trust at that point would be far greater, and Salazar is not certain that holding back would be beneficial anyway.

Perhaps it would still be unwise to simply declare the truth, however. Black would be unlikely to take it well if hit squarely with the news of Salazar’s identity, but perhaps allowing him to come to that realisation himself would soften the blow.

It is all guesswork, in truth; Salazar has no idea what Black thinks of him, or what conclusions Black might have drawn from his return.

“I knew one of them,” he allows, cautious as he observes Black’s reaction. “The other… I suspect I heard about.”

Black’s tongue runs over his front teeth, Salazar waiting in silence for a verbal response.

“Have _we_ met before?”

Salazar tilts his head, knowing the answer full well but unsure what the best way to express it might be.

“Several times,” he replies after several seconds’ thought. “Long before I took up this Lordship.”

Black nods, almost absent-minded as he continues to watch Salazar in silence. Despite the civil conversation that they are currently holding, Salazar can still see the remnants of Azkaban, stark within that hollow gaze, haunting Black’s stare mercilessly. It may well be a long while yet before they start to fade, though if Black is amenable then perhaps Salazar might be able to assist him in finding support.

“If you’re happy to answer these questions, why don’t you just stop hiding yourself?” the gaunt man demands suddenly, wand gripped tightly once more. “Or are you lying to me?”

Salazar considers that idea in silence, turning it over in his head.

“Would you like me to stop hiding myself?” he asks, “Or would you rather know who I am first?”

Taken aback, Black blinks at him, then starts to sneer.

“I will remove the enchantments if you’d prefer,” Salazar adds before any disparaging words can spill forth. “As you say, I am willing enough to answer your questions – this would merely be a shorter route to the same information.”

“Remove them,” Black tells him at once. “Do it now.”

It takes but a twitch of his fingers to dismantle the enchantments, the magic cascading from his face and his throat as he reaches up to lower his hood. If Black does not take this well, then he has the upper hand; James’s old friend is still weak from his time in Azkaban, and not thinking as clearly as he might otherwise be.

Indeed, when Black lunges at him with wand half-raised, it is not difficult to disarm and bind the man. That is not to say that it is not disappointing to see such a reaction.

“You fucking bastard!” Black spits at him from the floor, struggling against the silver ropes the grip him firmly. “You know how much it hurt James when you left? He never stopped looking for you – never fucking stopped! And you come back now – _you fucking cunt_ …”

Salazar waits in silence while Black continues to rant, letting the words wash over his head as best he can; it will not help him to think about James’s reaction to his disappearance, about the fact that James never knew what happened to him, that James held onto the hope that one day they would see each other again in a way Salazar could not. He spent the first third of his life so far glued to his twin’s side, and now it has been over a half since he last saw James.

He has a lot longer left to go.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Black realises aloud. “You don’t even _care_ – you don’t care what you did to him! Why didn’t you come _back_?”

Finally, Black falls silent, perhaps because he has run out of words, perhaps because he is now too angry to voice that fury, or perhaps – unlikely though it is – because he has realised that Salazar will not be replying until he stops.

“Are you finished?” Salazar checks all the same, unbothered by Black’s rage-filled snarl. “You knew me for four years. In all that time, did it never sink into your skull that I do not have control over my magic? Did you somehow forget that I was _ripped_ away from my family in an unpredictable accident? Tell me, in what way do you think I had control over the situation?”

Black’s laugh is hoarse, entirely devoid of humour.

“Don’t try to spin that bullshit with me, Salazar,” he grinds out. “You were gone – what? Nearly two decades? _Muggles_ can get from one side of the world to the other in days, and you want to tell me you couldn’t get your fucking arse back to _Britain_? You’ve somehow taken up the _Slytherin_ Lordship, shoved the Potter Lordship onto _my godson_ , and you want to tell me you couldn’t get back to Britain? Fucking _pathetic_.”

_Dear Merlin, this man is ridiculous._

“Yes, of course, my mistake,” Salazar drawls, reaching for his Occlumency to remain calm; he might know the truth of the matter, and he might understand Black’s assumptions, but that does not make the accusations easy to stomach. “I forgot that it was a prerequisite of magical accidents that the results they produce are _astoundingly_ like apparition. There is certainly no chance that the incident that occurred might have done something other than displace me by up to several thousand miles.”

Black’s lip curls, though he seems to have stopped struggling against his bonds, if nothing else

“Well, you’re clearly not dead, and you obviously had time to do _something_ on your little escapade – the fuck do you think you’re fooling?”

The problem, Salazar knows – and indeed, the reason why he decided that it might be worth the risk to reveal his identity to Black in the first place – is that the best ways forward all seem to involve having a decent working relationship with Black for quite some time to come. This conflict will have to be resolved today and, unfortunately, the best way to do that is appearing increasingly likely to be explaining the entirety of the truth to this furious man trussed up on the floor of a frigid cave.

Black will have to be told at some point anyway, if they are to work together closely for long enough – and if Harry wants the man to have a role in his life.

“It was time travel,” Salazar tells him flatly, and continues while Black stares at him in shock that melts quickly into sneering disbelief. “When I disappeared, I did not find myself in some other modern-day country. I awoke in much the same part of England, only Potter Manor was gone, my family was nowhere to be seen, and a man I’d never met before was asking if I was alright – or so I am told – in a language I did not speak.”

“You can’t possibly think I’ll believe this pile of –”

“ _That man_ ,” Salazar presses on, flicking his fingers to silence Black and ignore the outrage that the gesture earns him, “Was my only company for the next year, until we met two women who would go on to become our closest friends. As far as I was concerned, I had no chance of getting back to James, to Mum and Dad, so I made my peace with it – eventually, as best I could. I started a family with that man, and Black? It was the happiest I have ever been in my life. We had the school we built, we had a settled life, we had each other, and we were so fucking _close_ to working out a way to control my magic – and then I lost that too, and here I am again. The world different, my parents – dead. My brother…”

Try as he might to flatten his emotions and deaden his voice, Salazar cannot stop his lips from twisting downwards before he regains control. Is it really for the best to tell Black all of this _now_ , on their first meeting since they were fifteen?

 _Yes_ , if he wants Black to trust him – and he does. Black – with all his distrust of others, particularly those in power, and his clear mental trauma remaining from Azkaban – needs to understand, to truly believe, that Salazar is not holding any secrets.

“I don’t know how much you have put together from this,” he tells Black, who glares back at him in silence, “Whether you believe it or not, but I am sure that you have not grown up in a Black household without learning at least the basics of Legilimency.”

Black’s eyes widen. Perhaps he is now starting to realise how painfully sincere Salazar is forcing himself to be at this moment; to offer anyone but those he trusts most a chance to pry into his mind is far more than irregular.

“Look for yourself,” Salazar continues, catching sharp, haunted eyes and holding them as he releases Black from the ropes. “Look through it all, if you’d like – provided that you do not pry into anything personal. I have nothing to hide, but I like my privacy as much as anyone.”

“So much you’ll let a near-stranger delve into your head,” Black snorts, already reaching for his wand.

“My Occlumency is sufficient to monitor what you look at, and these wards were erected by me,” is the only response that Salazar feels the need to give, though it is more the case that the wards are a last resort, and his Occlumency should also be more than strong enough to keep Black out of any particular memories.

Slowly, Black’s chin lifts in acknowledgement.

“If you’re lying,” he warns darkly, “I don’t give a fuck about the wards – I’ll find a way to make you pay for what you did to James.”

“Then I suppose I should be glad that I am telling you the truth.”

Black’s shoulders roll in a careful circle, then the stolen wand rises in a shaking hand as Salazar waits as patiently as he can. In truth, he has no idea what possessed him to offer Black access to his head, but he has gambled enough today already when it comes to trusting Black, on his instincts and half-baked logic alone while part of his mind remains fixed on Harry. Why not round it all off nicely?

“ _Legilimens_ ,” Black mutters, and there is nothing for Salazar to do but wait and monitor what Black flicks through in silence – back first to Potter Manor, the summer of 1975, with no one but family around to witness the moment that Salazar’s world bursts into dazzling gold, then the room he stands in crumbles to blackness and –

– _flash of blue eyes, framed by light brown curls, a crooked grin that has recently gained an irritating ability to set his heart racing_ –

– _and with the school coming along so well, it is no hardship to take a day to relax, strewn across the grass beneath the summer sun as Godric sleeps at his side_ –

– _Rowena is complaining about the students again, Helga stifling laughter and soothing her teasingly, all of them knowing that the harsh words are not meant, because these children are their future, and what a bright and magnificent future it shall be; Godric’s chest rumbles with laughter, the arm over Salazar’s shoulders tightening_ –

– _so the winter this year is cold and harsh, the wind biting into exposed skin with vicious delight as storms rattle the windows with hail and snow piles up outside, until they have no choice but to tell the children that no one will be leaving the castle unaccompanied_ –

– _“Do you think it will get easier?” Salazar asks and, although the question is out of the blue, voiced without context, Godric’s eyes soften at once._

 _“Yes,” he replies, that crooked smile gentle and almost sad, but reassuring all the same. “That is not to say you will ever stop missing them. But it will get_ –

– _never realised that teaching could be quite so exhilarating as it is_ now _, watching this child’s eyes light up with realisation and wonder, the world opening up before them as ideas tumble forth_ –

– _this man hurt Salazar’s students, turned that which was meant to protect them against the school to hurt them, and all for his hideous bigotry, for_ –

– _of course this strange new place he finds himself in would be one with the most horrendous language barrier Salazar has ever encountered; he does not think he recognises anything this man is trying to say to him_ –

– _gold light again_ – please, no, not this, please – _and Godric, Helga, Rowena… gone; when the darkness fades, he does not recognise the man looming over him, like a mirror of a previous situation in the worst possible way_ –

 _No,_ not _looking into Quirinus’s head, thank you. That is between him and myself, not you, Black._

– _“Your parents are, unfortunately, dead, as is your brother and his wife,” Gornuk explains, and Salazar does not know how to hold himself together, but he does so anyway_ –

– _“I never wanted to be a father,” he confesses for the first time since discussing it with Godric so many years_ –

– _as Vernon’s face flashes before his blurring eyes in multiples of two, pain rocketing through his skull while he struggles to find his bearings, continually offset by the blows that rain down_ –

– _“I’ve never had a chance to see how the man who betrayed my brother was brought to justice. To see the trial records would be…”_ –

_Not that, thank you._

– _Fudge’s fingers are always clumsy, prolonging touches that already crawl over Salazar’s skin, and today is no exception_ –

_Not. That._

– _lips that press to his are faintly chapped but warm, Godric’s hand steady on his waist_ –

 _That is_ enough.

As soon as Black is out of his head, Salazar slams the door to that last memory firmly closed. Now is not the time to revisit any of that, if he ever dares to at all. Luckily, Black is far too busy staring in shock to make any ‘smart’ comments while Salazar sets his Occlumency shields firmly back in place and scrambles for his composure, but that does not help the awkward tension within the cave any.

“This is fucking _insane_ ,” Black mutters, Salazar content to ignore the disturbed horror twisting on the other man’s face while he makes a quick accounting of everything that Black has looked at; it was hard to keep track at the time, but the memories are easy enough to sort through now. “You slept with _Cornelius Fudge_ just to look at my trial records?”

Incredulous, Salazar turns a blank stare on James’s old friend.

“Is that truly what you have taken away from this?” he demands, and Black gapes out him.

“Wait – That’s – You _really_ –”

“Yes, I had sex with Cornelius Fudge,” Salazar snaps, irritated. “It was not the first time, and it is unfortunately unlikely to be the last. I would not recommend it.”

“Does Harry know?” Black presses.

Deciding to ignore the use of Harry’s first name without permission – given that Black knew Harry for approximately a year of his life, and that Harry is his godson, it may well pass as acceptable anyway – Salazar shakes his head.

“I do not intend for him to find out – _certainly_ not before he is many years older than he is now.”

Black snorts, Salazar stiffening at once.

“He’s _thirteen_ , he can handle –”

“Harry is old enough to have a discussion about practising safe sex,” Salazar cuts in sharply. “He is _not_ old enough to be hearing about _my_ sex life, nor should he ever have to.”

Sirius Black, it seems, has not gained much in mental maturity since the last time they met – though Salazar would much prefer it if he were able to place all of the blame for that on Black himself, not the influence of the dementors after twelve years in Azkaban for _no fucking reason_.

“So Harry knows you’re…?”

Black waves his hands vaguely in the direction of Salazar’s ring.

“Harry knows,” Salazar confirms, nodding. “I do not make a habit of hiding things from him unless the information is inappropriate.”

“And the time-travel?” Black checks, suddenly suspicious. “He knows you’re – you know…”

“Salazar Slytherin, Founder of Hogwarts?” Salazar fills in dryly, more for Black’s reaction as the concept finally seems to sink in than anything else.

The small, choked sound it earns him is more than worth it.

“Yes,” he adds, taking a moment to check the time as he wonders idly if Black is still too soon out of Azkaban to be capable of handling this overload of information properly.

“The man who was punching you,” Black starts out of the blue, which answers Salazar’s internal question quite well; the other man clearly does not have the mental capacity to hold onto one strand of knowledge at a time amidst this mountain, “Who was that?”

“Harry’s other uncle, Vernon – husband of Lily’s sister, Petunia. Their son is Harry’s age and goes to Hogwarts. Vernon and I do not have the most loving of relationships.”

“You think?” Black grins, all teeth and no real joy. “That aggression’s coming from somewhere.”

“Yes, from his hatred of anything that defies his standards of ‘heterosexuality’,” Salazar returns, deciding that now is the time to stand, given that Black seems to have, if nothing else, lost his wariness of Salazar.

It likely helps that, without the enchantments in place to disguise Salazar’s distinctive characteristics, Black will have no trouble recognising that he still holds the height advantage. Subconscious though the effect might be, it will keep Black that little bit more at ease if Salazar’s movement does unsettle him.

As it is, Black seems more than sufficiently distracted by Salazar’s words to remain unbothered by Salazar pushing himself off the ground and brushing off his robes.

“What does that even _mean_?” he asks, bemused, then shakes his head, mood shifting in a heartbeat as his eyes narrow and his jaw tightens. “No. That doesn’t matter. You’re going to get Peter and make sure I get a trial. You said you would.”

“I did,” Salazar agrees calmly, “And I will.”

Black’s shoulders loosen slightly, a faint relaxation at the assurance, but it is clear that the conversation remains over for the time being – which is more than fine as far as Salazar is concerned. Black may have rifled through his head, and everything seen in there may have soothed the potential conflict, but Salazar does not intend to discuss all of it in close detail.

“Either Quirinus or myself will contact you with updates,” he tells Black, then draws James’s Invisibility Cloak forth, ignoring the harsh breath that Black sucks in at the sight of it. “I will have Pettigrew by the end of the day.”

It does not take long to locate and secure Pettigrew. In fact, much like the Veritaserum-assisted interrogation, it takes almost disappointingly little time; it is a simple matter of apparition into the Third-Year dormitories with his eyes closed – better safe than sorry – and a non-verbal silencing charm applied at exactly the right moment, then the rat is located, stunned, and summoned, and Salazar has nothing more to do but return to Potter Manor and secure Pettigrew in an easily-warded cage to ensure that there will be no transformation nor escape for the traitor.

Once Pettigrew is shut away in a dark room, and the warding has been checked thrice to ensure that it is set up perfectly, Salazar sends a simple message to Black then turns to find Quirinus and Harry. At some point, he would quite like to find himself a Pain-Relieving Potion, because his head does not seem to be appreciating the cumulation of more active Mind Magic in one day than Salazar has felt a need to employ in quite some time. If it were all Legilimency, it likely would have been fine, but Occlumency is comparatively far from Salazar’s strong-suit, unfortunately.

Unsurprisingly, Quirinus is still working, the voiceless chant ongoing as his forehead gleams with sweat. For a moment, Salazar hovers to watch, tendrils of Soul Magic hooking themselves into his skin and sinking hungrily deeper as he shudders with the nauseating pressure of it, but it does not take long to decide that he would be better off elsewhere until the ritual is over; Quirinus and Harry might be safe within the confines of the ritual circle itself, so long as Quirinus does not make a mistake, but Salazar is not so certain about himself.

Quickly, he removes himself from the ritual’s vicinity, relieved when the Soul Magic slides easily off him this time. Stronger it might be, but it has not had so long to latch onto him, and an extra nudge from his magic is all it takes to rid himself of the crawling itch beneath his skin.

As soon as all evidence of the ongoing ritual is stripped from him and his enchantments are set into place to disguise his identity once more, he steps and turns, landing himself neatly on the pavement outside the Ministry of Magic’s visitor entrance. Truthfully, he doubts that he would have much trouble using the staff entrance, either as Lord Slytherin or as Salazar Potter, but he much prefers this one for comfort and lack of smell.

“Lord Slytherin, here to speak with Madame Bones,” he tells the receiver when asked, waiting patiently while his badge is printed.

One day, he muses as the floor starts to descend beneath his feet, it might be interesting to work out whether Lady Bones prefers the title ‘Madame’ while working because she believes it makes her more approachable, or because it is an excuse to pretend that her brother is still alive and thus that she has no reason to use the title ‘Lady’.

Perhaps the fact that the idea has just occurred to him is a signal that today would not be a sensible day to attempt such a deduction. Merlin knows he is far from emotionally stable at the moment, and he has quite exhausted himself when it comes to use of Occlumency.

No, Mind Magic will not be much use to him through his business here.

“I do not have a wand on me,” he tells the guard when he arrives, who nods and waves him tiredly through without so much as lifting his scanner to check, clearly used to his visits by now.

Pursing his lips, Salazar debates stopping and insisting that the man does indeed check him for a wand, because inductive inferences are not a suitable method of determining when one should apply security measures. In fact, with Riddle around, he cannot afford to let this stand.

“Do not simply take my _word_ for it,” he tells the hapless guard, exasperated. “You might know that I never use a wand, but you have not even verified that it _is_ , in fact, me.”

The guard hesitates, clearly alarmed.

“This is my ring,” Salazar tells him firmly, lifting his hand. “Now you know that it is indeed me. That is step one. Step two is to lift your scanner and confirm what I have just told you – that I am, in fact, not carrying a wand.”

While he waits for the scanner to be waved hesitantly up and down his body, he considers pointing out that he has actually lied and is carrying a wand – two, even, though he does not plan on revealing both – but decides against it. He can poke holes in the scanners themselves at a later date, when it is not more convenient for him that those weak-points remain unnoticed. Fixing attitudes will have to suffice for the time being.

“Right, no wand,” the guard mutters, waving him on with the air of a chastised student.

“Thank you,” Salazar replies, stepping through into the Ministry proper and glancing up to find the Head of the DMLE watching in silent amusement – how convenient. “Madame Bones – exactly the Ministry official I was hoping to see.”

“Lord Slytherin,” Lady Bones returns, mirroring his bow with slightly more depth and shaking his hand firmly. “Thank you for that entertainment. Would you like to talk in my office?”

Nodding, Salazar gestures for her to lead the way.

“My apologies for coming to you so soon before Yule,” he tells her as they walk, though he knows that she will be working tomorrow as well, only taking Yule itself as a holiday. “The matter seemed urgent.”

“It really is no problem,” she assures him at once. “Just in here – I like to keep my office close to the entrance.”

 _But particularly heavily warded to make up for that_ , Salazar notes, fighting down a physical reaction with only a small degree of success; with his Occlumency shaky and everything raw and sensitive from the morning’s panic, the bite of the wards drags over his skin like a set of knives.

“Is everything alright, Lord Slytherin?” Lady Bones asks, eyeing him curiously.

Gathering his composure hurriedly, Salazar manages a nod as he attempts to regain function in his throat.

“It has been a long day,” he explains. “I am often sensitive to magic anyway, and…”

“The wards,” Lady Bones fills in, nodding her understanding. “I’m very sorry about that – it’s a necessary safety precaution, given my position.”

Murmuring a calm agreement, Salazar lowers himself into the chair she indicates and steadfastly ignores the insistent – though much gentler – brush of a ward that seems very set on getting some idea of his identity while he remains in this room. He has no doubt that she is capable of deactivating it when necessary for those wishing to remain anonymous, but he does not intend to ask that she do so.

Instead, he launches into the problem at hand without another second of small-talk, knowing that she will much prefer that approach.

“Are you aware that Sirius Black never received a trial?” he enquires, settling one leg carefully over the other as he laces his gloved fingers in his lap.

“I’m sorry?” she replies at once, her monocle slipping somewhat; she reaches up quickly to reposition it.

“I’ll assume not,” Salazar tells her wryly. “Sirius Black was never offered a trial before being sentenced to Azkaban for the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve unnamed others. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is particularly concerning when one considers that Peter Pettigrew is in fact alive.”

Lady Bones has a quill and parchment ready by the time Salazar finishes speaking, her eyes glinting as she fixes him with a stare like granite.

“Please tell me everything you possibly can, Lord Slytherin, and I will begin a formal investigation today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I finally got the chance to watch Good Omens, and I - 
> 
> Well.
> 
> Anyone want to chat about it?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon, everyone! Hope you're all well.
> 
> This one's a short one, so... sorry, I guess. Please enjoy it regardless!

Slowly, Salazar turns his creation over in his hands, examining its length with a careful eye as the grains of its wooden exterior catch in the torchlight. Around his shoulders, his assistant curls languidly, ever watchful as, beneath her deadly gaze, he feeds his magic carefully through his fingers; to his frustration, it does not trickle as finely as he would like, instead surging forth in waves that he has to rein forcefully back to ensure that his work does not go to waste.

It would not do to have to make another trip to the other side of the globe for more wood, not least because his ability to do so was difficult enough to explain the first time. Perhaps, as Godric suggested, he should have simply used a wood native to the Isles, with the further advantage of a much less distinctive appearance, but neither his lover nor their friends could disagree with his need to find a wood that felt suited to him.

In their conversation on the topic, Rowena put it best; there is no use in creating a wand to assist him in learning finer control if the wood he uses for that wand demands that he rely on brute strength.

“ _Is it done?_ ” Eavan asks, lowering her head to taste the air around the developing wand and rearing back at once. “ _Is it meant to shock me?_ ”

“ _No,_ ” Salazar admits under his breath, his attention still fixed on his work. “ _I have fed it too much. Either I will have to draw it back, or…_ ”

 _Start over_ , he fills in silently, lips twisting. The wand does not wish to relinquish the magic he has given it and, unless he can somehow convince it to hand some back or steal it carefully away, he will have to destroy this attempt and start again.

“ _Why did you do that?_ ” Eavan asks, as Salazar tugs gently on the magic that the wand holds.

At once, it lashes out like a wounded animal, and he barely resists the urge to yank his hands away and let it clatter to the tabletop, instead gritting his teeth to wait out the pain.

“ _I did not mean to,_ ” he explains. “ _You know my magic is difficult to keep at bay._ ”

Slowly, Eavan shifts, then lowers her head towards the wand once more.

“ _It does not wish to give it back?_ ”

If there is one particular benefit to having a basilisk as a companion – beyond the delight that is Eavan herself and the opportunity to take a freely-offered fragment of her horn for this very project – then it is that Eavan sees magic much the same way as he does; she understands how he interacts with it in a way that he struggles to explain to others.

“ _It does not,_ ” he confirms, watching the way the magic reacts to her investigation – and to her words. “ _I’d like to try something…_ ”

At once, she moves her head away to let him work.

“ _I am about to try talking to it,_ ” he warns her after a moment’s hesitation, “ _So please do not interrupt._ ”

Unoffended, she settles down over his shoulders to watch and wait while he slowly coaxes the wand in his hands into an almost-sleep, soothing it as he realises that its reluctance to return the magic stems from whatever equivalent of pain it can feel; it might not exactly be _sentient_ in the sense that he is used to, but it responds to its environment well enough that it seems to almost have a sense of self, and an understanding of discomfort and danger to go alongside. In its sleep-like state, it almost seems to hum in contentment while he slowly detangles the excess magic and eases it apart, hoping desperately that his remaining magic will not choose this time to cause him problems. If anything goes wrong, he has no doubt that it will tip this beyond any state of possible repair.

By sheer luck, nothing goes awry, but he sets the wand down to ‘sleep’ a little longer anyway while he regains control of his nerves and ensures that there is nothing more to be done before it will be ready to use. That decision, it transpires, is a most fortunate one, because Godric chooses that moment to latch onto him from behind, startling him from his thoughts as Helga’s soft laughter rings through their campsite, Eavan hissing in good-natured complaint and freeing herself hurriedly from Godric’s clutches.

“How is your wand progressing?” Godric asks, settling his chin on Salazar’s shoulder as his arms secure themselves firmly around Salazar’s waist. “Is this it?”

“This is it,” Salazar confirms, and Godric hums in soft confusion.

“It does not feel like any wand I have encountered before,” he observes, careful as his head tilts to rest against Salazar’s. “It is… muted.”

“It is asleep,” Salazar explains simply. “I will wake it up when I wish to use it.”

“Asleep,” Godric repeats. “You’ll have to tell me more about that later.”

Affronted, Salazar twists around to frown at his lover as Godric hurriedly loosens his grip to allow for the movement.

“You still have not explained your new theory of arithmancy and you expect me to reveal all of my wand’s secrets?” he demands, and Godric’s eyes flash with bright amusement.

“My apologies, my apologies… I’ve been waiting until Rowena cannot hear us – she will have to earn the right to hear my justifications after last time.”

“If only you’d do the same at night,” Rowena cuts in, glancing up from her book for the first time to fix them both with the same pointed stare, and Helga kicks her.

“You know full well that Salazar’s wards are more than suitable!”

“Yes, Rowena,” Godric prods, laughter in his tone. “Please do apologise to my lover. I will not stand for you insulting his capabilities.”

“My sincerest apologies, Salazar,” Rowena drawls, already turning back to her book to hide the smile growing on her lips.

The hunting horn that rips through the previously still air brings a sudden halt to any continuance of the conversation, the loud toll of a bell echoing up the hill towards them a few moments later. Salazar ignores the clanging, already focused on packing his and Godric’s books and tools away in quick sweeps of magic where possible and with practised movements for their more delicate equipment, every belonging ready to be transported within minutes.

“Are they after us or has someone been discovered in the village?” Rowena demands, and Godric shifts his position on the branch that he has pulled himself onto then utters a muffled curse.

“I cannot say for certain, but they already look to be building a pyre down there – and that cannot be all of their able-bodied folk coming after us.”

Foregoing any use of his new wand – now is hardly the time to test it – Salazar summons his companions’ less delicate belongings to him and takes the bundle of complex magical items that Helga passes over, a carefully packed combination of both hers and Rowena’s.

“We’ll meet by the pyre, then?” Godric suggests as the horn sounds again, a manic grin already growing in place. “Sal, we’ll see you soon.”

Salazar does not bother with a farewell before he steps and turns, already with their next destination in mind. It is a lovely change from travelling in awkward jumps until he finds another settlement suitably far from the last, though he does not expect it to become a regular occurrence; they rarely know where they intend to visit after their current location, and it is all the less likely that he will have a clear enough image of the place in his mind to be confident in making it there directly without any serious incident.

“ _Eavan, would you like to stay with our belongings, or return with me?_ ” he asks when he is satisfied with the temporary warding set up around their new campsite; he will replace it with something better later, but it will do for the time being, while he is working to a tight schedule.

“ _I will stay this time,_ ” Eavan decides, settling into place with her coils draped over Salazar’s – thankfully empty – cauldron. “ _Go and fight alongside your mate._ ”

No further encouragement is needed.

“This is a good place you have chosen,” Helga announces much later in the day, when the sky is fading to dusky gold, and lifts her drink to Salazar, who nods his thanks before turning his attention back to the wound on Godric’s shoulder.

“Remind me how this happened?” he mutters under his breath, to a disgruntled huff as Rowena makes a small, amused sound nearby. “Oh, yes – you cannot tell me, because you were not _looking_!”

“I know, I know,” Godric grumbles, then winces from the salve that Salazar presses into the gash. “I let my guard down, and I will not be making that mistake again. At least I live to learn my lesson.”

Salazar cannot stop his hand from tightening on the vial in his hand, jaw tensing as Helga shakes her head.

“Godric, that does not make any of us feel better about this, least of all Salazar,” she warns. “He is no more a learned healer than the rest of us – if this were any worse than it is…”

Sighing, Godric reaches back with his unaffected hand to find Salazar’s forearm and squeeze lightly in comfort. Without any hands of his own to spare, Salazar kisses the top of his lover’s head in turn, a silent assurance that he knows what Godric means by his words. This could indeed have been worse, and Godric has never been the sort to discard lessons when they arise. Unfortunately, there is little to be done to lessen the risk to their lives while they continue to travel without any permanent home, moving from place to place to help their fellow magic-users as much as they can.

Perhaps one day, that will change, but Salazar cannot see their current situation improving soon.

While Rowena takes over wrapping Godric’s shoulder properly, Salazar settles onto his bedroll to slip his new wand from his tunic and consider it in silence. He travelled to Australia to make this – to a country that he does not remember learning of – because something told him that there was a wood to be found there that would suit him better than any to be found within the Isles. It is a simple reminder that there is knowledge of something yet to come, locked away somewhere within his head, that will be of enough importance to survive one thousand years.

There is something in their future that he could not afford to know about beforehand, for fear of what it might do to the world should it go awry, and perhaps that is a comfort.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feasgar math, a chàirdean! I hope you're all well.
> 
> I have to confess to being somewhat confused myself. In case anyone reading this doesn't already know... I'm reading Maths and Philosophy at Oxford. A key component of Maths is Analysis, which is kind of like a rigorous look at the foundations and proving very key results... 
> 
> So here's the problem. The lecture notes - which I'm currently favouring over the lectures themselves - have several instances in which the proper subset symbol ⊂ is used. Great. Nothing wrong with that. Until you get to a theorem that states that two sets, we'll call them S and T, are equal. And we have a previous theorem stating S ⊂ T. Which... Does not work. And the proof that follows essentially amounts to a proof by double inclusion, but what kind of monster writes 'S ⊂ T and T ⊂ S so S = T'? There's a reason we have ⊆ instead, and it's not so we can go around misusing the proper subset sign. (For context, the _normal_ distinction between ⊂ and ⊆ is a bit like the distinction between < and ≤. If you have two real numbers, you don't go around writing a < b and b < a so a = b.)
> 
> Now, I have since researched this and found out that occasionally people do use ⊂ to mean ⊆ but, even beyond the fact that ⊆ is used normally in other parts of the same document... Why would you do that? Why would you take a perfectly nice, clear piece of notation, throw it away, and put in its place something that normally means something else? _Why?_
> 
> Okay, maybe I'm not confused (at least, not entirely), so much as very deeply hurt and frustrated. But anyway. That's my little adventure of the week. The wonderful adventure of finding out that sometimes even mathematicians think it's a great idea to take two bits of notation created to make certain important distinctions unambiguous and just... mix it up. Fabulous.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter. (I've just realised how bitter that probably reads as, but I do actually mean it!)

At her small desk in the corner of the office of her best friend’s uncle, Hermione turns Salazar’s portkey carefully in her hands, examining the small engravings along its circumference. This is clearly a set of runes for some kind of ward or enchantment, but she doesn’t recognise the patterns at all and, until she has deciphered how the various symbols fit together, she doesn’t stand a chance of working out exactly how it functions.

Irritatingly, it isn’t anything like any arrangement she has come across in either her lessons or the extra reading set for her by Salazar himself. It is as though someone came along with enough knowledge of runes to remember the languages themselves and understand the need for a structure of some sort, but without any idea of the conventional forms, in fact. That, of course, does not make the slightest bit of sense; _no one_ learns the runic languages without going through the standard arrays as well.

Apparently, though, someone has either done exactly that, or has decided to invent a new system for the sheer fun of it, which means that Hermione will have to work backwards from what she _does_ know about this storage function to figure out how it was put together in the first place. It will be difficult, and it will undoubtedly take her a long time – but no one has ever accused Hermione Granger of not being up to a challenge.

To start, she needs something to write with. Salazar, she knows, keeps pencils and normal paper – which she has missed _desperately_ at Hogwarts – on his desk, but he isn’t around to ask if she can borrow it, and she does not particularly feel like emerging from his office to find her own writing utensils. Dudley and his parents are still in the kitchen, finishing dinner, and she doesn’t intend to be invited in to join them if they hear her shifting around upstairs, as rude as she feels for avoiding them without explanation.

Hopefully, Salazar won’t mind her wandering over to his desk just to get something to write on and with? If there _is_ anything out in the open that he wouldn’t want her to see, then it would really be his fault for leaving it there when he has already offered her time in his office during meals.

Decision made, she stands and crosses to his desk, intent on not looking at anything besides her target just in case; it has been a chaotic day for him, she knows, having sat through his very rushed explanation just this morning before he disappeared off to his family’s old manor with Harry and a man who _might_ have been Professor Quirrell – of all people – to sort out some problem or another. He was rather hazy on the details. Whatever the case, he might have been planning to hide something before she next entered his office (or perhaps he trusts her not to look, and she will be breaking that trust simply by coming over here).

Quickly, she snatches up a few sheets of paper and a pencil and does her absolute best not to look at the rest of his desk as she does so, but why in Merlin’s name does he have floorplans for some building with security posts marked, and why does he have a list of all the wards with all their anchors labelled? Whatever this building is, she suspects that it belongs to some kind of government, and perhaps she should stop looking now if she wants to maintain any modicum of plausible deniability –

Tearing her gaze away, she hurries back to her own seat in the far corner of the room and starts to work, taking small, careful bites of her dinner as she examines the runes of the portkey and jots down notes on the relational positionings. This rune fits with that one here, and with this other one in a similar way here; is this a third instance? No, there is another rune directly linked, like a chain one might find in a _normal_ structure, which really does not make any more sense than Salazar planning to break into a governmental building.

_Back to the portkey._

If only her mind would stop wandering back to the plans on that desk, she might actually get somewhere. There must be some logic to whatever it going on here, surely? Perhaps, if it is a rune-based enchantment, then it might work without any kind of structure after all – but she doesn’t know enough about enchantments to say for certain. Besides, given its purpose, she is becoming increasingly convinced that it must be a warding system; that would be much better suited to containment, stopping the magic from escaping.

And with that, Hermione finds herself back to wondering about those floorplans, because it is so incredibly difficult to think of an innocent reason for Salazar to map out the security measures of a building like that and, while she isn’t about to tell anyone about it, she desperately wants to know _why_.

It isn’t as though she can simply ask Salazar himself, however, so she will likely never know. All she can do is focus on this intriguing puzzle carved into the iron.

For the next hour at least, she works, albeit distractedly, on the portkey, trying to decipher the patterns or figure out an overall structure, but with little success. Why would someone create something like this? The more she looks at it, the less certain she becomes that there is a structure as she had originally assumed – and yet the stronger some kind of intangible intuition that she just isn’t seeing something important grows. Sometimes, she thinks it might be a variant on some arrangement or another that she has come across before, then she will spot something that tips that theory on her head, and back she goes to the start.

The sharp crack of Salazar’s arrival makes her jump, her pencil skidding slightly across the paper before she can lift it away. Quickly, she twists in her chair to watch as he slumps down at his desk and buries his face in his hands, either unaware or uncaring of her presence.

“Good evening, Hermione,” he offers wearily after several seconds, the greeting muffled somewhat by his palms – uncaring, apparently. “Harry should be fine; he is now resting in his room, but should be up tomorrow morning.”

Deflating where she sits, Hermione summons a weak smile.

“Good,” she manages, voice faint with relief. “Are you… alright?”

Slowly, he drops his hands down to the table and slumps back, lifting his head to meet her eyes after a moment.

“I am only tired,” he assures her. “You’ve been looking at the portkey, I see?”

At once, Hermione nods.

“Did you make up this structure?” she asks curiously, unable to help her frown when he nods. “Why?”

For a moment, something flickers in his eyes, then he lifts one hand to nurse at his temple with a soft groan, shaking his head. Concerned, Hermione watches him closely and waits for him to respond as she wonders whether to check if he is okay again.

“I will explain another time,” he promises, fingers slipping down to pinch the bridge of his nose instead. “The Mind Arts are not to be trifled with, and I have overworked myself enough in that area today.”

Hermione can’t say she knows what to make of that, but she nods without voicing her confusion and searches for a way to move the conversation on, her eyes catching on the plans that rest on his desk once more. If he particularly didn’t want her to know, he surely would have hidden them before. In fact, she might even remember seeing them the first time she came in here this morning.

“Are you planning a break-in?” she ventures, already prepared to flee the room if he does turn out to be displeased, but he only huffs a tired laugh.

“Yes,” he admits while she blinks in quiet surprise. “The less you know, the better.”

Carefully, Hermione draws in a breath and presses further.

“Would you tell me if I became your apprentice?”

For several long seconds, he considers her in silence, head cocked. She forces herself to wait it out, chin raised as his fingers pick up a light rhythm on his desk, and prays that Draco was right about his intentions.

“Possibly,” he settles for finally, “Though I would not take you on as an apprentice if that were your only motivation. However, if this is simply your way of introducing a topic you would like to discuss…”

His lips twist.

“Would you mind if we continued this conversation tomorrow?” he requests, somewhat reluctantly. “It is not the sort of thing I would usually place on hold, but I imagine it would be beneficial for the both of us were I awake enough to contribute sensibly.”

That, Hermione can’t argue with at all.

On Monday morning, with the grass outside coated in thick, glittering frost and the sky as pale as the ghostly ground below, Hermione slips into Salazar’s office with her breakfast in her hand and a book under her arm, settling down in the far corner to read while she waits for Salazar himself to appear. He shouldn’t be long, she knows – he told her himself that he only has to check that Harry is alright when they passed each other a minute ago – and then…

Then it will be time to talk about a potential apprenticeship opportunity. Whether she is more excited or terrified, she can’t quite tell.

“My apologies,” is the first thing Salazar says to her when he steps into his office, offering her a vague shadow of a tired smile before dropping down into his chair; she has only spent a cumulative matter of hours one-to-one with him, but already Hermione is starting to grow used to how his decorum slides away as soon as he enters this room. “I would have preferred not to make you wait for this conversation.”

“That’s fine,” she hurries to assure him. “You looked exhausted yesterday. How… How is Harry, by the way?”

Again, his lips twitch faintly up.

“Well enough,” he replies. “Unsurprisingly grouchy, but in good health. He will likely sleep through large parts of the day today, but that is more for comfort than for necessity.”

Relaxing, Hermione nods her understanding and, when Salazar seems to realise that they are sitting on opposite ends of the office and waves her over, sets her work aside to settle in front of his desk instead. For a moment, once she is still, he considers her in silence, then nods and leans back in his own chair to cross one leg over the other.

“How much do you know about apprenticeships?” he asks quietly, tilting his head to watch her while she gathers her thoughts.

“An apprenticeship is an arrangement,” she ventures, slow and careful until he nods in encouragement, “Between a teacher or mentor – called a master – and a learner – called an apprentice. It centres around the passing of the master’s craft onto the apprentice, but… it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he confirms, still with the same steady gaze fixed on her. “There is an element of guardianship to it; if we take the example of Harry’s apprenticeship, then we can consider that although Harry is emancipated and has no legal need for a guardian, Severus can, if required, still fill a version of that role for him. If one of his teachers ever wanted to discuss his schooling with someone other than himself, for example, Severus provides someone to whom they can turn.”

Here, Salazar pauses, hand twitching almost agitatedly where it rests on his knee before he flicks his fingers and a string of light sparks into being, already threaded through the digits. Hermione finds herself hard-pressed not to watch as he fiddles with the simple magical construction, well-aware that she should be focused on his words instead, as he draws in a breath to continue.

“You still have legal guardians, and are not emancipated. In the unlikely event that your teachers would ever feel the need to discuss your schooling with someone other than yourself, then they would turn to your parents,” he explains. “However, if you were to become my apprentice – or anyone else’s, for that matter – then, although they would be obligated to inform your parents of anything of _particular_ importance, your teachers would usually come to me.”

As his eyes start to wander off, drifting around the room while that luminescent thread twists around his fingers, Hermione considers that idea in silence.

“That is one example of the guardianship role that a master takes on for their apprentice,” he tells her, soft and smooth, the light continuing to dance through his hand. “For those raised beyond the magical community, this is often a sticking point of sorts when first encountered; it can be seen as too great an expression of trust.”

“But if you don’t trust your master completely, you shouldn’t be entering an apprenticeship with them,” Hermione fills in uncertainly, and Salazar nods, his fingers finally stilling.

“Exactly,” he announces in full seriousness, straightening in his seat. “Herein lies our problem, Hermione. You are clearly eager and willing to learn and, whenever I have something to teach you, you learn _well_. I am certain that you would benefit from an apprenticeship with me, and that I, too, would find such an arrangement particularly useful. I am also finding that I miss teaching – and you are perhaps as close to the perfect student as one can find.”

Flushing, Hermione ducks her gaze. She already knows where this is going, though, even before Salazar sighs quietly.

“But you do not trust me,” he concludes. “You trust, I think, that I want what is best for Harry, and you trust that what history has to say about me is largely inaccurate, but you do not trust _me_.”

Guilty despite already knowing that he has always been aware of her distrust, Hermione shifts awkwardly and searches for something to offer in response to that, but there is nothing. What he has said is true, and that is the end of that.

“So.” He fixes her with a sharp stare. “We have five more days before you return to your parents, and beyond that… quite some time to exchange letters, if you are interested enough in the prospect of becoming my apprentice to attempt to grow to trust me. An apprenticeship, of course, is not necessary for _some_ degree of learning, as already demonstrated, but I would not wish to venture much into practical territory without it. Indeed, there will be a limit to what I would feel comfortable to teach you even theoretically.”

Slowly, Hermione nods.

“I _can_ decide not to consider an apprenticeship, and I can continue to learn from you, but a lot less than I would otherwise,” she summarises, “Or I can try to learn to trust you, and forget that I spent two years being taught that you were an evil, homicidal bigot –” his shoulders shift with suppressed laughter, to her relief, “And maybe become your apprentice. And then you’d teach me…?”

“Runes, warding, arithmancy, the Mind Arts, a much greater degree of wandless magic,” he lists off, his magical thread sliding through each scarred finger that he unfolds, “Control of your magic, perhaps some healing… But it is difficult to commit to an exact syllabus; apprenticeships, when independent of regular schooling, are rarely any more structured than the planning it takes to play everything by ear.”

Biting back a small grin at that, Hermione weighs up her options – not that it is a difficult choice. She has already come a long way in trusting him, when she considers her attitude towards him now as opposed to when she had just discovered the truth of his identity. He has been nothing but supportive of her, even in areas that she never expected anyone to offer her help with, and it is painfully clear that he has much to teach her, if she gives him the chance.

“When you say the Mind Arts,” she can’t help but venture all the same, and he arches an eyebrow, “Would we be able to focus more on Legilimency? I’d like to be able to protect my mind, of course, and being better able to structure it sounds so useful, but…”

“Legilimency would suit you better,” Salazar fills in, almost as though he is completing her sentence; it takes a moment to realise that this might well be his agreement. “I am a better Legilimens than I am an Occlumens, and I suspect the same will be true of you. Of course, we would have to start with a foundation of Occlumency, but your strengths lie in seeking new knowledge.”

As usual, Hermione lets herself take the time to contemplate that properly before opening her mouth again.

“How do you think I’ll be able to learn to trust you?”

“By talking, mostly,” is Salazar’s immediate reply, and he must be able to tell that she is somewhat dubious of that, because he sounds – and looks – distinctly amused as he elaborates, “Not through small talk – that would be almost entirely ineffectual. No, through open and honest conversation on far deeper topics than the weather.”

For a moment, he pauses, seeming to consider something before making an internal decision.

“You asked me yesterday about the structure of the runes on the portkey,” he reminds her, slowly settling back into a more comfortable position as she nods. “I did indeed come up with it myself – entirely out of necessity.”

His glowing string inches itself gradually through his fingers as his lips twist, his gaze wandering away from her again. Hermione does her utmost to wait patiently, forcing her knee not to bounce as the silence stretches on, until finally – to her great relief – he seems to shake himself from whatever strange reverie he had fallen into.

“Suppose that you find yourself in an unfamiliar place,” he tells her, though he still doesn’t look in her direction, “And you discover that you have somehow travelled backwards through time by virtue of realising that the only person you know is, in fact, a famous figure from the society you grew up in. Suppose that you meet two other famous people whom you know to be connected to the first, and that gradually… you come to realise that you are the fourth.”

Finally, he turns back towards her, sharp green eyes fixing on hers as she listens in utter silence.

“Suppose that you know stories of what should therefore happen in your future, and that you do not like it one bit, but you also understand that to act on what you know could be to cause irreparable damage to time, the universe – _everything_. No one has ever experienced time-travel in this way or, if they have, you have never seen any documentation of it. You cannot know what the consequences are. You are not sure if you can stand by and let what you have heard come to pass. How do you solve this problem?”

There is no chance that Hermione will be answering this before she has thought it through with more care than any other question he has ever asked her. This is his real life, and she does not want to disrespect him in any way.

“The goal is to not act on what you know, because it could be catastrophic to do so?” she checks, to a firm nod. “…And the problem is that you have this knowledge, and you don’t know if there is any way to refrain from acting on it.”

“Would _you_ like to become an evil, homicidal bigot if you could avoid it?” he returns dryly, arching an amused eyebrow as she stifles a laugh. “I will warn you – the magic I eventually used to solve this situation is not something you will necessarily be aware is possible. I am more than happy to simply explain what it was, so that we can get to the point of this.”

Briefly, Hermione entertains the idea of insisting on figuring it out for herself, but she at least trusts Salazar to be both correct and honest in suggesting that it might be better for him to simply tell her.

“Alright,” she agrees, watching as he lifts a hand to nurse his forehead for a second.

“There are two distinct ways to ensure that someone is not capable of recalling some specific information,” he explains, firm and steady as he falls further into that increasingly familiar teaching mode. “The first – and far more well-known – is the Memory Charm, using the incantation ‘ _Obliviate_ ’. This is most commonly applied on one person by another, often – but not always – without consent.

“The second relies on Occlumency, and involves the suppression of one’s own memories. Where the Memory Charm cannot always be reversed by the caster, as it depends on their original intentions and mastery of the spell, the use of Occlumency ensures that the memories can be properly recalled _with the right care_ , provided that one remembers to do so. This often requires a second party to be aware of the memory suppression and to provide a reminder not only to reverse it when it is no longer required, but to regularly do so and then reapply it to avoid causing permanent damage.”

Here, Salazar pauses, and Hermione waits in quiet anticipation.

“With Godric’s knowledge, I suppressed any memories I had that could possibly interfere with our future actions,” he admits, hand closing into a tight fist around his glowing thread. “I could not remember anything remotely linked to the existence of Hogwarts. That included a good many interactions with my family, particularly with James, and also some of my own lessons from my parents – such as my mother teaching me basic structures for runes.”

Finally, Hermione understands how all of this links back to the portkey. Salazar, however, does not seem to have finished speaking, so she refrains from giving voice to that understanding while he gathers himself.

“As time moved on, it became safe for me to start to remove the suppression on some, but not all, of my memories. At least once a week, Godric would remind me to release them all, and I would take the opportunity to assess what was and was not safe for me to remember.”

His jaw clenches, and his eyes dart away from her, a distinct difference from their usual habit of simply drifting off.

“When you asked about the portkey, I was reminded for the first time in over four years that I have memories which remain suppressed. I have yet to assess the damage – I rather overworked myself with regard to the Mind Arts yesterday – but I am not particularly optimistic.”

_Oh._

Speechless, Hermione can only stare as she tries to fathom the idea that Salazar has simply been living without memories of his childhood for years and never realised – that he now has damage of some kind to contend with, and didn’t he say earlier that it would be _permanent_?

“I’m so sorry,” she manages eventually, voice barely more than a whisper. “What – What kind of damage is…?”

“It will be damage to my mindscape – brain damage,” he tells her simply. “It will be manageable, certainly, particularly once I have full use of my Occlumency again instead of tying part of it up in the suppression itself, but… Beyond that, I could not yet say.”

Silence descends upon the room as Hermione struggles for anything further to offer, any response at all to this. What is there to say to a man who has just realised that, on top of everything else that he has to deal with at the moment, he has permanent brain damage?

Salazar himself seems similarly lost for words, staring down at his own desk with his lips pressed tightly together. There surely must be something that Hermione can come up with to break the quiet; it isn’t awkward, as such, but there is a certain tension to it that she doesn’t particularly like, and it doesn’t sit right with her to leave that without any kind of response.

“While it need not be anywhere near so miserable as this,” Salazar starts, quite out of the blue, “I would consider this an example of something that might help you learn to trust me. What I have just shared with you is, of course, deeply personal, but that cannot be a barrier in either direction for an apprenticeship. All are entitled to secrets so long as they are harmless, and to privacy, but I have, in sharing this, offered you a greater understanding of myself and my background, and you might note that, had I not felt comfortable to explain this, then an academic question of yours would have been left unanswered.”

_That makes sense_ , Hermione thinks. Still, considering everything he has told her, she now has a question that she wants to ask.

“Now that you’ve been reminded that the memories are suppressed, are you going to remember to sort them all out?”

Slowly, his chin lifts, a wry smile twisting at his lips.

“Not without help, I suspect,” he admits freely. “Your question triggered a reminder only because it required that I directly contemplate not the missing memories themselves, but _why_ the memories were missing. Even regardless, I likely would not have been capable of remembering _that_ were my Occlumency not already under great stress yesterday.”

“So… Would you like me to remind you?” she checks, relaxing when he nods.

“In fact, if you would be willing to accompany me to visit Severus…” he muses, cocking his head in thought. “Yes, that might be for the best. I am not willing to attempt to deal with this without Severus’s supervision, but to visit him myself comes with the risk of forgetting the purpose of my visit, and this is not the sort of information that I would be comfortable sharing by letter.”

Carefully, Hermione mulls the idea over. As long as the trip doesn’t take long, she supposes, there shouldn’t be any harm in it.

“I will send word ahead that we will visit this afternoon,” he decides aloud once she has nodded her agreement. “At… shall we say one o’clock? I would appreciate it if you would come to find me here and remind me of the visit.”

The implication that he does not expect to remember even that weighs heavily on Hermione’s mind as she murmurs her agreement.

Hermione and Dudley have been playing boardgames for an hour when a bleary-eyed, blanket-wrapped Harry trudges into Dudley’s room through the _open_ door to flop down on Dudley’s bed with a muffled groan. Besides his obvious exhaustion and the headache that he seems to be nursing, he appears well enough; his scar, Hermione notices when he turns his face towards her, is slightly reddened, but otherwise he looks absolutely fine.

“Fuck Riddle,” he mumbles into his blanket, then squints at them as if trying to focus on them for the first time. “How’s Salazar doing?”

“Salazar?” Dudley echoes, as Hermione wonders whether Harry knows about his uncle’s memory problem.

“He freaked,” Harry explains, pulling his glasses from his face to rub clumsily at his eyes as a yawn stretches his jaw. “Like… full-on panic, never seen him less calm in my life. Think he was a bit better this morning, but I didn’t see him long, and I didn’t really have my glasses on.”

“He panicked?” Dudley clarifies, brow creased. “ _Salazar_?”

Humming drowsily, Harry nods. Hermione can’t decide whether to join Dudley in surprise or not; even last week, it likely wouldn’t have been a question, but already she has found herself growing used to the idea that Salazar is as human as the rest of them – and their brief conversation yesterday, when he seemed almost as drained as Harry does now, sticks in her mind.

“He was actually shaking,” Harry tells Dudley with a nod. “I didn’t even know what was going on at the time, so… That was fun.”

_That_ , Hermione supposes, is something of a shock. If Salazar were ever to panic about something, she would have at least imagined that it would be after he’d sorted out as much of the situation as he could. Still, what matters is that Harry is here and fine, and whatever the problem was has apparently been sorted for good.

“But you’re fine?” Dudley checks, clearly thinking along similar lines.

“I know I am,” Harry returns at once, grinning as he strikes a pose, and Dudley snorts, leaning over to shove him.

“You’re an idiot, Haz.”

“So fickle…” Harry complains, and Hermione can only bite back a giggle as Dudley glares at his cousin.

It doesn’t take long for Harry to wander back to his room for more sleep, almost walking into the doorframe as he goes and grumbling at Dudley’s laughter. After that, the rest of the morning passes quietly; they finish their boardgame and move onto their homework for the holidays, chatting all the while. Hermione keeps half an eye on the time, just in case she has to excuse herself early to go and find Salazar, but Dudley is the one who calls them to a halt for lunch just a few minutes after noon, waving her down towards the kitchen.

“I need to go and see Salazar,” she tells him as soon as she has all the food that she thinks she feels alright to eat on her plate, relieved when he doesn’t question why she isn’t sticking around for the meal yet again.

Salazar is working at his desk when she arrives, apparently drafting a letter of some sort; he barely seems to notice when she slips inside and sits down, and she wastes no time in setting up the privacy wards that he taught her. As she starts on her lunch, she pulls her notes on his portkey out of her pocket, examining them carefully as she hopes that something will click – but no such luck, even once she has finished her meal and is just waiting for one o’clock to come around.

Finally, with a sigh, she tucks her work away once more and disassembles the wards, taking her plate back to the kitchen before returning to Salazar’s office to sum up the courage to interrupt his work. Whatever he is writing, he seems entirely focused on it, his brow creased with concentration as his lips move soundlessly, and she _really_ doesn’t want to break his focus, particularly if he won’t even remember why.

She agreed to, though.

“Salazar?” she asks quietly, jumping when his head snaps up at once and only relaxing when he offers her an expectant smile. “We were going to visit Professor Snape this afternoon.”

Salazar blinks at her, then frowns.

“I take it there is a reason why I did not remember this before?”

Nodding, Hermione hovers on the verge of explaining what that reason is; she doesn’t know how long it takes him to forget this sort of thing, so is it worth it to tell him now?

Tilting his head, he regards her carefully.

“Am I to take it that, whatever it is, I might not remember it after you have told me?” he asks, and nods when she continues to hesitate; she doesn’t _know_ that for certain. “Then I will also assume that you are accompanying me to, at the very least, remind me of the purpose of this visit once we arrive.”

“Yes,” she agrees, relieved that this is something she can definitely answer.

“Very well…”

Standing, he holds out an arm for her to take, but doesn’t apparate as soon as she grasps hold of it.

“Harry would likely suggest I warn you that this may be a particularly unpleasant trip,” he informs her lightly. “The Hogwarts wards, as I explained to him, were never designed with the intention that we would take others through with us.”

Nervous, Hermione nods and tightens her grip on him, even as she tries to reassure herself that it won’t be _too_ bad. She has only experienced apparition once, and that was not only inside Hogwarts, but when Salazar himself wasn’t in a good condition; it was alright then – certainly nicer than a portkey – and this surely can’t be too much worse, can it?

It can. Yes, it can, and Hermione regrets ever thinking otherwise as she doubles over and gasps for breath, only Salazar’s hand on her shoulder keeping her on her feet.

“Good afternoon, Severus,” she hears him greet above her.

“Good afternoon, Salazar,” her Head of House returns, flat as ever. “Am I now going to hear what the purpose of this surprise visit is?”

Hermione can feel the expectant stare that Salazar turns on her, so she forces herself to straighten, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment while she waits for the ringing in her ears to subside before she attempts to speak.

“You have suppressed memories,” she reminds Salazar carefully.

Cocking his head, he seems to consider that idea before sighing quietly and nodding. Professor Snape arches an eyebrow, folding his arms, and Salazar turns almost reluctantly to explain.

“I suppressed many of my memories through Occlumency while in the 10th Century,” he begins, and Professor Snape’s second eyebrow rises to join the first. “Godric reminded me regularly to release and refresh them, and the majority became safe to retain after some time, but it seems that there were still some suppressed when I returned to this time.”

The horror that dawns on Professor Snape’s usually impassive face does not do anything to help Hermione feel better about the situation.

“Sit,” he tells Salazar at once. “Would you prefer Miss Granger to stay, or should I send her home through the Floo?”

Salazar turns to Hermione as he lowers himself into the indicated chair, clearly waiting for her to decide.

“I’d like to stay?” she ventures carefully, because the curiosity is far too strong.

To her relief, Salazar only nods his agreement then turns back to Professor Snape.

“Thank Merlin you came here,” the Potions Master mutters as he considers Salazar through narrowed eyes.

“Yes, thank Merlin I possess a _modicum_ of intelligence,” Salazar drawls and, despite herself, Hermione struggles to stifle her laughter. “I was hardly about to attempt anything without another competent Occlumens around to assist.”

Professor Snape’s lips press tightly together.

“And these memories have not been released at all in the last four years?” he demands instead of addressing the comment.

“There have been a few instances of magical exhaustion, when they would have been naturally released,” Salazar offers after a moment of thought. “I suppose that will have lessened the damage somewhat.”

Humming his agreement, Professor Snape settles onto his desk to think it through.

“Do you intend to simply release them all and hope that I can support if anything goes wrong?”

“Do you have a better plan?” is Salazar’s instant reply – not the most encouraging thing to hear, in Hermione’s opinion, and Professor Snape’s shrug of concession only makes it worse.

“Merlin, this is a terrible idea,” the man mutters all the same. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

Hermione isn’t sure why, but she had expected some kind of slow, arduous process, with a great degree of care taken and perhaps even some sort of magical strain. Instead, Salazar simply exhales carefully, closes his eyes, then Professor Snape winces in sympathy and, between one breath and the next, Salazar is bent double in his seat, clutching at his head in obvious pain and cursing viciously; Professor Snape glances towards Hermione with a frown, meeting her eyes briefly, then mutters a quick silencing charm with a flick of his wand in Salazar’s direction.

“Is… everything sorted now?” Hermione checks quickly, to a sharp nod from Professor Snape. “But the damage is irreparable.”

At once, Professor Snape’s lips purse.

“Yes,” he allows, dark eyes flickering momentarily towards Salazar before returning to her. “It is, however, much better than it would have been had he not made the otherwise foolish decision of working himself to the bone multiple times.”

Blinking, Hermione turns in Salazar’s direction for a confirmation or denial, and receives a sheepish nod for her efforts before he stands and removes Professor Snape’s silencing charm.

“Thank you for your assistance, Severus,” he tells Professor Snape, then turns to Hermione. “If you would take my arm again, I’m afraid the return trip will not be much more pleasant.”

“Can we take the Floo?” Hermione mumbles, disappointed but unsurprised by his immediate shake of the head.

“Consider this a lesson of sorts – or perhaps a taster of what an apprenticeship with me might be like at times,” he explains gently. “These wards are one of my greatest creations and, if an apprenticeship does become an eventuality, you will become very familiar with them – and they with you. If that is to be the case, then I would like you to have had a chance to familiarise yourself with what they feel like for others first.”

Slowly, Hermione takes his arm and decides not to ask if he means that she will eventually be able to apparate through the wards herself, or just that side-long apparition will become a lot more comfortable. She may find out in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and I have an icon now! That photo is of a lake near where I live, and was taken on Christmas Day, either immediately before or after I went for a swim (I don't remember which).


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon, everyone!
> 
> I have so much I want to say about rugby at the moment, but I'm very aware that very few people who read this will actually care, so I'll just settle for saying that Mike Brown is currently... _irritating_ me quite a bit.
> 
> I hope you're all well!

Harry stares at Salazar, silently appalled. Vaguely, he’s aware of Hermione doing much the same to him on his right and, on his left, Dudley seems torn between directing his attention to Salazar or to Harry. Master Snape and Quirrell are unknown entities, standing behind Harry as they are, while Salazar himself sits in patient silence as though waiting for whoever decides to react first.

“What the _hell_?” Dudley splutters finally, breaking the horrified tension that has fallen over the room, then twists in his seat to glance around. “Am I only the only one who didn’t already know some of this? No one looks surprised enough for this – at all! You can’t just – just break all this news and then just think it’s all _fine_!”

Harry has no answer for his cousin. It’s not just ‘all fine’, but he certainly prefers the current situation to what it was a few days ago now that he doesn’t have a _horcrux_ in his head, and he has already had a few weeks to prepare for the eventuality that Sirius Black might be innocent. All he has left to be concerned with is the fact that his uncle apparently has a problem with his own head now and is skirting a little around the details of it.

Oh, and Quirrell being around is hardly anything new these days, even if he does look distinctly worse for wear at this very moment – an after-effect of the ritual, apparently, though he waved away both Harry’s apology and thanks.

“Mr Dursley, consider that the situation is far better than it was, for example, yesterday morning,” Master Snape suggests smoothly – exactly what Harry had been thinking. “The vast majority of these problems are as close to resolved as they will ever be.”

“Sirius Black is innocent,” Dudley announces blankly.

“With regard to the crimes of which he was accused,” Master Snape agrees neutrally and, despite himself, Harry almost laughs.

“Professor Quirrell was _possessed_ by You-Know-Who. But now he’s _here_.”

It must be a little surprising for Dudley, Harry supposes, to discover that their once-murderous professor is not only still around, but has been working with Salazar for the last while.

“My actions are entirely my own these days, Mr Dursley,” Quirrell cuts in, glancing over towards Salazar as his nose wrinkles oddly, and Harry experiences the strangest suspicion that the two are trying not to laugh at Dudley’s reaction; indeed, when Harry looks to his uncle, Salazar’s lips are pressed tightly together, his eyes sparkling.

“Salazar’s done… _something_ bad to his head,” Dudley tries next, twisting to face the man in question as he adds almost desperately, “Doesn’t that _bother_ you?”

“It bothers me a great deal,” Salazar allows, calm and steady as he reclines in his chair. “There is little to be done about it, however, and as of yet it has not interfered with much.”

It has not interfered with _much_ , Harry notes, and barely refrains from asking what Salazar thinks it _has_ interfered with. He doubts he’d get an answer, and he’s not about to push if Salazar doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Certainly,” Salazar continues, fixing Dudley with a stern but warm gaze, “It is not something you need worry yourself about. I am merely informing you so that all are on the same page.”

It’s with obvious uncertainty that Dudley nods, then his eyes flicker around the room and catch on Harry, and he seems to remember the final piece of news revealed in this impromptu meeting, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair.

“Harry –”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry cuts him off quickly, unwilling to let his own cousin, of all people, recount a situation that he is admittedly still quite shaken up over. “Turns out my scar was a horcrux, which is pretty horrific, but it’s sorted now, and that’s that.”

Hermione’s hand finds his forearm and squeezes in gentle comfort. Grateful, Harry twists to shoot her a small smile and finds himself relaxing that little bit more when she returns the expression.

“Well,” Quirrell offers after a moment of quiet, clasping his hands and managing a tired smile, which Harry thinks is impressive when he appears, much like Harry felt yesterday, to want nothing more than to curl up and sleep. “Was that all, or do you want me here to scare your relatives as well, Salazar?”

Whatever that means to Salazar, it clearly amuses him – and even seems to tempt him a little as well. After a moment, however, he shakes his head reluctantly, a clear dismissal of the suggestion even as he holds up a hand to stop Quirrell from leaving.

“There is one last thing to discuss,” he begins in a serious tone, and Harry straightens at once. “You spent Yule alone last year, did you not?”

“What?” Dudley demands before Quirrell can even reply. “You can spend it with us this year, then.”

The look that Quirrell fixes Salazar with is distinctly unimpressed; Harry bites back a grin as his uncle stares innocently back.

“Only if you want to,” Dudley adds, sounding almost disappointed.

Briefly, Harry wonders whether Dudley is acting or if this is genuine. Either seems plausible, knowing Dudley; even if Harry’s cousin doesn’t always celebrate Yule himself, he understands how big a deal it is to spend Yule with others for those to whom it’s actually important.

“The same offer applies to you as well, Severus,” Salazar adds helpfully, looking all too pleased with himself as he settles a little more comfortably in his chair to smile unusually brightly at the two other adults in the room. “I know you usually spend Yule at Hogwarts, and I understand if you’d prefer to maintain that tradition, but the invitation is open all the same.”

Harry feels himself perk up almost without meaning to, twisting in his master’s direction, and Master Snape’s lips twitch with some sort of suppressed fondness or amusement.

“I don’t have time to sort out Yule gifts for anyone other than you, you – you sly…” Quirrell grits out wearily, seeming to struggle for an appropriate word to label Salazar as he nurses his temples.

“Reprobate?” Master Snape offers smoothly, scowling in Salazar’s direction. “You already know my answer, Slytherin.”

“I will see you tomorrow evening, then,” Salazar returns pleasantly, eyes following Master Snape all the way to the Floo before snapping back to Quirrell. “Quirinus…?”

“Don’t worry about gifts for us,” Dudley assures their ex-professor quickly; in Harry’s peripheral vision, Hermione bites back a grin. “It’s not like we know each other that well yet – but you can still spend Yule _with_ us, and we can do gifts next year.”

Slowly, Quirrell deflates.

“Fine,” he announces, more to Salazar than to anyone else. “Though I reserve the right to disturb your less favourable relatives through any means I consider suitable.”

Salazar’s grin widens as Harry tries to pretend that he doesn’t want to see exactly what Quirrell might have in store for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. If Salazar is comfortable enough with the current situation not to discourage any antagonisation, then there’s nothing to be concerned with other than whether Harry can keep a straight face.

“Do you think I’d protest?” Salazar returns easily. “Quirinus, you have my whole-hearted permission.”

Quirrell – or _Quirinus_ , as Harry should probably get used to calling the ex-professor eventually, because he does have permission even if it feels weird – returns on Tuesday afternoon and proceeds to make a game of touching Salazar as much as possible whenever Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia around. To Harry, it’s very obvious that both Salazar and Quirinus are trying their hardest not to laugh about it the entire time, and Aunt Petunia seems to catch onto that eventually, her uncertain frowns turning to exasperated stares as the day wears on, but Uncle Vernon only gets twitchier still, his face flushing every time Quirinus’s hand settles on Salazar’s back and moustache shuffling when the two shuffle up to sit as close to each other as possible.

This, of course, combines beautifully with Salazar’s occasional vindictive streak to bring about an afternoon of boardgames for everyone in the house, of both magical and non-magical variety. Harry keeps half an eye on Salazar while his uncle chats quietly with Quirinus about some kind of obscure magic that Harry has never heard of – not that Uncle Vernon, sat as far away from them as possible, can hear anything that they’re whispering about. As Monopoly drags itself on, Harry finds more and more of his remaining attention drifting towards Dudley’s father, watching as Uncle Vernon grows increasingly uncomfortable with the situation but clearly doesn’t feel able to say anything outright with Harry, Dudley and Hermione in the room.

Next to Salazar, Quirinus makes some kind of joke that Harry definitely doesn’t know enough arithmancy to understand, and Salazar chuckles softly, turning his head to mutter something about equations for low-risk use of Fiendfyre. Catching Dudley’s gaze across the Monopoly board, Harry stifles a grin and watches his cousin’s eyes flicker over the room, Dudley seemingly caught between horror, morbid fascination, and as much amusement as Harry feels.

A vein in Uncle Vernon’s temple pulses.

In the end, when Quirinus’s arm settles over Salazar’s shoulders, his fingers tracing invisible calculations on Salazar’s arm, Harry has to excuse himself lest he lose his cool over Uncle Vernon’s transition from magenta to puce, and Hermione flees on his heels. Together, they race for the stairs, up to Harry’s room with their hands clapped firmly over their mouths.

When they’re far enough away to feel that their laughter will go unnoticed, they collapse against one another in hysterics; Hermione sounds like she’s on the verge of tears, her giggles hitching with almost-sobs, and Harry thinks he might be much the same. It’s only a matter of seconds before Dudley stumbles in to join them, shoving the door closed to collapse onto Harry’s bed and let the desperate mirth run its course.

“I – I can’t –” Hermione gasps out breathlessly, clutching at Harry’s shoulder as she tries to hold herself upright – a bad idea, because Harry isn’t in any better state than her – and losing the rest of her words to further sniggering.

Staggering, Harry reaches out to snag his bedpost in a vague attempt to hold them both up, but fails miserably; they collapse to the floor to choke on the hilarity of the situation until they have control of their lips and the air they need to speak.

“Your dad’s face…” Harry moans, tilting his head back to find Dudley. “I actually – I just couldn’t…”

“I never imagined _Professor Quirrell_ …” Hermione trails off with a wordless shake of her head to wipe at her eyes instead.

Slowly, their laughter tails off into contented silence, Harry settling himself more comfortably on his back with Hermione at his side, Dudley hanging over the edge of the bed above them. Part of Harry wants to be bothered that they’ve become so used to Uncle Vernon’s homophobia that they can find it funny, but he figures that the best way to do this is to follow Salazar’s lead. Given that Salazar is more than happy to let Quirinus pretend to flirt with him, Harry thinks they’re okay to just appreciate the upside of the situation for a bit.

Maybe it’s not even that the situation itself is as hilarious as they’re treating it, but that they need the release of the stress and tension that has been building since the summer. It feels good to have a _reason_ to laugh.

“Harry? Hermione?” Dudley starts suddenly, the nervous edge to his tone catching Harry’s attention; next to him, Hermione shifts in recognition of the change in mood.

“Yeah, Dud?” Harry prompts, trying to gentle his voice without sounding patronising.

Dudley draws in a deep breath, glances anxiously in the direction of the door, then leans closer and lowers his voice.

“I’m gay.”

_Oh._

Taken entirely by surprised, Harry blinks for a moment, then the terrified glint in Dudley’s stare registers, and he hurries for something to reassure his cousin before he worries about trying to work out if he should have known that already (or even if he already suspected).

“That’s absolutely fine,” he tells Dudley, reaching out to squeeze the larger boy’s hand. “Thanks for telling me. …You got your eye on anyone in particular?”

“He does,” Hermione confirms before Dudley can get past a shade of deep crimson, and blushes herself when Harry turns to stare at her. “Well. That is – I mean…”

“You – You _knew_?” Dudley splutters. “What – Since when –”

Awkwardly, Hermione pushes herself up into a sitting position.

“Well…” she begins, drawing the single word out as she seems to struggle for an explanation. “ _Someone_ has a crush on you, and keeps backing out of asking you to go to Hogsmeade with him, and it’s been really annoying everyone who has to listen to him mope, so Blaise basically explained to all of us how to tell if you were into _him_ , which you clearly are – so I didn’t know you were _gay_ , just not _straight_ … Basically, it was so we could tell him that it’s mutual and he should ask you out already.”

Dudley gapes at her for a second as Harry struggles to wrap his head around this news. How did _Blaise_ know that Dudley’s into boys and Harry didn’t?

“Draco likes me?” Dudley squeaks, and Hermione’s entire face lights up as she nods.

_What_? Draco?

“What?” Harry repeats aloud, then his brain catches up. “You like… Draco is… Why didn’t I _see_ this?”

It’s so obvious. Of course it is. It makes perfect sense, and Harry is _reeling_ from the clarity of it all as he struggles for any excuse to explain why he never noticed before.

“ _Please_ ask him to go to Hogsmeade with you?” Hermione begs, then hesitates. “He is a bit worried about your parents, though. Because of what they did to Salazar. So… maybe talk to him about that.”

And then it hits Harry that Dudley’s having to sit through his own parents making it clear that they at best disapprove – in Aunt Petunia’s case – of who he is, and at worst – in Uncle Vernon’s case – are willing to resort to violence on the matter.

“Oh, _Dud_ ,” he mutters, pushing himself up onto his knees and dragging his cousin half-off the bed for a hug.

At once, Dudley’s arms wrap around him to cling tightly, Dudley sniffing into Harry’s shoulder as Hermione pats his back hesitantly. A moment later, she yelps in quiet surprise as Dudley detaches an arm from Harry to pull her in as well, then settles carefully into the embrace.

“They’ll come around one day, Dud,” Harry tells his cousin softly, squeezing Dudley a bit tighter. “Even if it’s only when they realise that they can’t love you _and_ be horrible about it. They’ll pick you.”

_Merlin_ , he hopes he’s right.

Evening finds Harry huddled up on one side of Hermione, Dudley on the other as they try to keep her warm until the fire builds; she insisted that she didn’t need a warming charm if they didn’t, but the fact remains that they spent their childhoods playing rugby – and still go along to training sessions over the holidays, sometimes – and they have a lot more muscle to keep them warm than she does.

“You sure you’re alright?” Dudley asks her for the third time, and she rolls her eyes. “Salazar would be happy to apply a warming charm for now.”

“It’s tradition not to use one, right?” Hermione demands, nodding when Dudley hesitates. “Even if the ritual hasn’t _technically_ started yet, I’d rather not get used to it.”

Harry can respect that, in all fairness. At least she isn’t outright shivering anymore, and her hand doesn’t feel like ice where he has clasped it between his own, Dudley doing much the same with the other.

“Comfortable?” Quirinus offers, lowering himself to sit on the ground near them to watch Salazar work.

“Very,” Hermione tells him stubbornly, then cocks her head. “Why aren’t you doing this ritual, if you’re more of an expert? And doesn’t Salazar’s magical disorder make rituals harder?”

Watching Quirinus nod in acknowledgement of the question and straighten, Harry is suddenly reminded that all the adults here are teachers in some capacity or another.

“First of all, with quarter and cross-quarter rituals, it isn’t _quite_ accurate to say that we aren’t performing it; Salazar is leading it, but we’re all taking part,” he explains carefully, Harry listening in interest. “Then… Well, these rituals aren’t exactly difficult in terms of fine details; you don’t need much control of your magic to perform or lead them, hence why it isn’t limited to those old enough to have some mastery over our magic.”

Here, Quirinus pauses and cocks his head to watch as flames roar into life, Harry looking away automatically and almost missing that Master Snape does the same. It’s kind of relaxing to know that he isn’t the only one with an issue when it comes to fire these days.

“Regardless, Salazar is naturally seen as a leader within this group,” Quirinus concludes quietly, as Salazar turns to mutter something Master Snape, whose lips twitch reluctantly. “That, more than anything, is the deciding factor when it comes to who leads one of these rituals.”

If the man assumes that he’s now finished with the impromptu lessons, he’s sorely mistaken, because Hermione continues to pepper him with questions as the fire crackles and pops before them. Slowly, Master Snape wanders over to join them on the floor, Salazar staying to tend to the flames for a few minutes longer before settling down as well.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Master Snape asks eventually, drawing Harry’s attention away from the unfolding interrogation to find that both his master and Salazar are watching him closely. “Is your mindscape well?”

Harry’s delighted to be able to nod, having checked it all this morning; the evil blob of wrongness is gone, and everything just seems so much better in his mindscape without it.

“I feel like… sorting out my shields actually feels easier, now,” he admits, and Master Snape raises an eyebrow, twisting to share a glance with Salazar, who nods in slow consideration.

“That… might make sense,” Harry’s uncle allows carefully, apparently taking another moment to think it over. “I can see a horcrux creating a drain of sorts on one’s ability to shield their mind.”

Master Snape seems to reflect on that before murmuring his agreement.

“Are _you_ alright?” Harry asks Salazar, who has the audacity to look surprised by the question. “Your mind…”

“…Is, like yours, theoretically in better condition than it was before the discovery was made,” Salazar concludes, tone brooking no arguments. “I believe I have identified the damage, and it should not have any major impact on my ability to function as well as ever.”

Master Snape’s lips twist, and he looks for a moment like he wants to say something but, whatever it is, he holds back.

“Okay,” Harry settles for, because he clearly isn’t going to get any more out of Salazar, even if it doesn’t really _feel_ okay.

Perhaps it can be for at least tonight.

Gradually, the waxing moon drifts its way across the clear abyss it hangs in, stars winking out of visibility as their light is briefly overshadowed by the luminescence of the moon before twinkling back into sight. At some point over the night, Harry finds himself curled up into Dudley’s side, Hermione’s head resting on his thigh so that he can card his fingers through her hair as he watches emotions flash unusually freely across Salazar’s face, a little like they had the other day but much more positive now. Whatever story Master Snape is recounting to him and Quirinus, it must be hilarious, because Quirinus seems on the verge of tears and Salazar is leaning on the other man for balance, his face lit up with open, honest delight. Even Master Snape has foregone his usual blank mask entirely, a sly grin curling at the edges of his lips as they form words too quiet for Harry to hear.

“I think I could create a Patronus out of this,” Hermione whispers, her breath glittering in the air above her as she stares right through it.

Harry glances up, following her gaze to the gap in the trees above them, where the starlight dances and the universe watches them spin.

“We could try it,” he offers quietly.

“Are we allowed to, on Yule?” she checks. “It doesn’t… break anything?”

“Yule is fine for other magic,” Harry assures her, scratching lightly at her scalp then returning to his previous task of simply combing through the strands of her hair where they fan out around her head, gleaming by the light of the fire.

“Together?” Hermione asks as she draws her wand, eyes flickering away from the majesty of the sky to meet Harry’s gaze, and he nods his agreement.

“Together,” he murmurs. “Dud?”

Dudley only nods, tightening the arm around Harry’s shoulders briefly before withdrawing it to find his wand and settle it in his palm.

“On the count of three?” he suggests, to twin nods. “Harry, do you want to do the honours?”

Harry is vaguely aware that the adults have turned to watch them curiously, but he ignores the eyes fixed upon them and inhales carefully, tasting the fresh crisp of the frost around them and the sweet smoke of the fire. There is a peace to this moment that he has not felt in a long time, a warm happiness that sinks deep into his bones, like an island of joy amidst the storm. It isn’t just about feeling it alone, either; it’s about sharing it with those who matter most to him, who mean so much in every moment of life.

“One, two, three,” he counts in simply, and two other voices join his own, the unity swelling _something_ inside him as he enunciates, “ _Expecto Patronum_.”

The pearly stallion that bursts forth from the tip of his wand takes his breath away, his eyes caught on its shimmering magnificence as it slows from a canter into a trot and wheels around to return to him.

“Hello,” he manages to croak, lifting a shaking hand to its nose and gasping weakly at the warm breath it snorts out against his palm as something tingles across his skin and up his arm.

“ _Oh_ …” Hermione breathes, and he looks down to find the small fox that has perched itself on her chest, nuzzling at her jaw as she beams and strokes her hand through its translucent fur.

“You need more faith, Dudley,” Salazar announces from the other side of the fire, soft but firm from where he watches with his head on Quirinus’s shoulder. “This faith you have in the feeling you are applying? That _needs_ to transfer itself to your execution of the spell itself. The spell is fuelled by the emotion; you must feel for the spell as you feel for the moment you use.”

Hesitantly, Dudley nods, and Harry wastes no time in twisting to his cousin.

“You _can_ do it, Dud,” he insists earnestly. “You know you can. _I_ know you can – everyone here knows you can.”

Dudley glances over, meeting Harry’s eyes for a second, and Harry offers a reassuring smile before bundling him into a tight hug.

“What Salazar said, yeah?” Harry mutters into Dudley’s shoulder, his ethereal horse snorting in apparent agreement above them.

“Cast again,” Salazar instructs gently, “And this time, believe that the spell will work as strongly as you believe in what you are feeling. Whatever it is, it is happiness and it is _beautiful_ , and it is enough for the spell, so the spell _must_ work, understand?”

With a shaky nod, Dudley raises his wand once more. Harry doesn’t let him go, simply waiting in silence as Hermione twists around to watch, her fox settling beside her head on Harry’s leg.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” Dudley whispers, so fierce and convicted that it almost takes Harry by surprise, and for half a beat the clearing holds its breath. “Oh, _Merlin_ …”

Harry grins to himself, watching Dudley’s eyes glimmer with tears as trembling fingers stretch out to scratch behind the ears of the Labrador that has just trotted a small circle back towards Harry’s cousin and now flops over Dudley’s lap to soak in the affection.

“Salazar?” Hermione prompts quietly, to Harry’s surprise. “A – And Quirinus? Professor Snape? Do you…?”

Salazar’s smile is soft and kind as he lifts a hand.

“ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he murmurs, his lion bursting forth as if through his fingertips; Master Snape and Quirinus echo the words with slightly more reluctance, but they greet the doe and falcon that emerge from the tips of their respective wands with deep affection.

“I do not believe I’ve ever seen so many Patronuses in one place,” Master Snape observes, his usual silken tone disrupted by a faint hint of roughness in his throat.

Salazar nods absent-mindedly, offering the lion one last pat before dismissing it and standing as Quirinus follows suit in offering his Patronus a soft farewell.

“It is time, I think, to return to the practices of our ritual.”

Nudging Hermione, Harry waits until both she and her fox have shifted off his leg to detangle himself from Dudley and rise shakily to his feet. The ivory stallion that materialised from his wand noses at him, huffing gently, and he takes a moment to appreciate his Patronus in silence, examining the strong and stable form before him and letting his eyes linger on each identifying feature. This is one thing he definitely didn’t expect to achieve over Yule, but he’s unimaginably glad he did.

“Thank you,” he whispers into his horse’s ear, watching it slowly fade into sparkling dust that drifts away on the wind.

“That was something,” Hermione offers next to him and, when he twists to her, he finds her fox gone, a small smile all that remains until she meets his eyes and it flashes into a much wider beam. “I just cast a Patronus – a _corporeal_ Patronus!”

Harry can only hug her.

The rest of the holiday, Harry spends learning elements of physical combat from Salazar alongside Dudley. Hermione mostly sits and watches while she’s still around, given that she hasn’t been taught anything at all about it yet, but she joins in on the lessons in wandless magic and, to Harry’s frustration but also pride, seems to pick up the principles so much quicker than he has ever managed to.

Salazar only raises an eyebrow and pushes her further, seeming to delight in the way she rises to each and every challenge to the best of her ability, no matter how much she struggles.

After the first week is up, she returns to her parents’, leaving Harry and Dudley to spend every morning sweating in frigid air from the training Salazar has taken to putting them through – the same training that, apparently, Godric often preferred when teaching Salazar himself to fight, albeit a slightly easier version to account for their ages.

“At least you had a distraction when _you_ were doing it,” Dudley grumbles on the Thursday before they return to Hogwarts, as Salazar watches on in silent amusement. “I just have _Harry_ – no offense, Harry, but you’re my cousin.”

“Would you prefer to train with Draco?” Salazar returns easily, arching an eyebrow when Dudley goes bright red and splutters indignantly. “Was I not meant to know about that?”

“ _How_?” Dudley complains as he doubles over, hands on knees, for a break; Harry debates copying him, or even flopping down onto the damp grass, but isn’t sure that he’d be able to get up again if he tried it. “You can’t possibly – How do you know about that?”

“That is for me to know,” is Salazar’s simple, if faintly smug, reply. “Harry, while I remember – Sirius Black should be proven innocent within the next month, if I can apply enough pressure to the system to have the bureaucratic element dealt with in reasonable time. I have… suggested to him that he might be able to stay here for a time afterwards, if you wish to get to know him. Is that something you would appreciate?”

Harry almost blurts out an immediate ‘yes’, but forces himself to pause and consider it. He doesn’t exactly know Black, for all that the man is apparently his godfather, and what he has _heard_ hasn’t exactly been great, even putting the false accusations aside.

“As long as he’s polite to Master Snape,” he settles for, Salazar nodding at once. “Have you actually asked Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon if they’d mind?”

“If they do, I’ll be sure to let them know that I won’t be the one breaking the disappointing news to you, when you so desperately want to get to know your godfather and have been deprived of the chance for all of your living memories,” Salazar returns dryly, which makes Dudley snort. “Now, I believe you have both had more than enough rest…”

The prospect of actually getting to know Black – his father’s best friend, a man he might be able to ask about the later years of James Potter’s life in a way he hasn’t felt comfortable to with Professor Lupin – sticks in Harry’s mind for the rest of the day until, after dinner, he makes a decision. Hunting Salazar down to talk about it takes a few more minutes than Harry expected, but eventually he finds his uncle out in the garden, watching the night sky in silence.

“Salazar?” he asks quietly as he steps out into the biting wind, and Salazar twists to offer him a warm smile. “It’s a bit cold out here.”

Salazar hums his agreement, either not noticing or ignoring the implicit suggestion that they should go inside, particularly given that he’s barefoot in a t-shirt and jeans, and Harry’s freezing cold even with a thick hoodie to curl into.

Sighing, Harry tries a different approach.

“Is there a reason you’re out here?” he asks, which does get more of a response.

“When James came home from each term at Hogwarts,” Salazar begins softly, eyes still tracing over the clouds above their heads, “We used to sneak out of the windows of our bedrooms at exactly nine o’clock the first evening and fly up to the roof. We would sit on the tiling and watch the sky roll on over our heads, and he would tell me everything about Hogwarts – even the things he’d told me before.”

Harry tries to swallow the lump in his throat to speak, but it’s a little harder to breathe than normal, and it takes several attempts to get any words out.

“You forgot,” he manages eventually, and realises too late that it was meant to be a question.

Salazar nods.

“I wish –” he starts, then clears his throat as his voice cracks faintly, “I wish he could have seen Hogwarts when we first built her. She was… magnificent. Well. She still is.”

Shaking his head, he draws in a slow breath and lets the air come streaming back out in frozen clouds, then turns to Harry.

“Are you here to talk to me, or simply to be outside?” he queries, tilting his head.

“To talk to you,” Harry replies at once, jerking his head back towards the door, and is relieved when Salazar follows him inside without any further delay.

They settle in the kitchen, the faint sounds of the TV filtering through from the living room as Salazar flicks a hand at the kettle and turns expectantly to Harry.

“Can I meet Black?” Harry requests straight off the bat, because he doesn’t want to lose his nerve on this.

It isn’t that he’s at all worried about asking Salazar, but that he doesn’t know if he really wants to do this – only he does. He definitely does.

Lacing his fingers together, Salazar considers the idea in silence while Harry waits anxiously. He _could_ wait for Black to come and live in this house, but it could be an entire month before that becomes safe, and then Harry won’t be around most of the time, because he’ll be at Hogwarts instead.

“We can arrange that,” Salazar agrees. “In fact…”

Harry watches Salazar check his watch, then his uncle’s eyes seem to lose their focus ever so slightly before Salazar nods.

“I won’t take you with me now, but I could make a trip to arrange it this evening, if you would like – _only_ if you would like.”

Forcing himself to take the time and think it through, Harry weighs up his options. He has to commit to this a lot more if he agrees to Salazar going to visit Black now, but he doesn’t exactly plan on backing out now that he has told Salazar, either.

“Alright,” he decides aloud, relaxing when Salazar only nods an easy confirmation.

He doesn’t expect Salazar to just apparate without bothering to find any warmer clothes or even any _shoes_ , but whatever. If Salazar thinks it’s sensible, Harry isn’t going to question it.

In the silence that follows Salazar’s exit, the kettle reaches a boil.

The worst bit about seeing Salazar Potter appear in the cave that Sirius has been using for shelter is that, for an instant, Sirius truly believes it to be James – and then he catches sight of those sharp green eyes, and all hope disappears in an instant. For a moment, bitterness both old and new rises inside him, then he shoves it down and nods curtly at his best friend’s brother.

“Salazar,” he grits out, satisfied when it doesn’t sound _too_ grudging.

“Sirius,” Salazar returns, and sits comfortably on the rough floor without a moment’s hesitation.

It takes Sirius a moment to realise that Salazar isn’t wearing anything that could be considered vaguely warm clothing. It takes him even longer to realise that Salazar isn’t wearing shoes.

James used to do that – go barefoot, out and about in the castle grounds and roaming over the lands that surround Potter Manor – but only in the summer months. His justification was always that if Salazar did it in the winter, he was being perfectly reasonable to only do it in the summer. Sirius never appreciated that enough.

“You just here for a chat, then?” he demands, gruff through the tightness in his throat, and Salazar sighs, low and quiet as he drops his head back against the wall of the cave – just gently enough to avoid injury.

“Yes and no,” he mutters.

Suspicious, Sirius watches the other man’s eyes drift up towards the roof of the cave and tamps down on the urge to demand more information. He remembers Salazar well enough to know that rushing James’s brother rarely helps anything. Then again, he also remembers that Salazar was an absolute stickler for manners and proper tradition – like a slightly stricter version of James, in that sense – and that was thrown out the window entirely when Salazar popped up as Lord Slytherin.

Probably, he was following Sirius’s lead to make Sirius feel more comfortable. _That_ is the sort of thing Sirius could imagine the Salazar he knew doing.

“Harry would like it if you came to live with us once you’ve been found innocent,” the younger man informs him quietly, “On the condition that you are polite to Severus Snape.”

Sirius opens his mouth to demand why _that_ would be a condition, then his eyes catch on an old, semi-rotten newspaper, and he remembers.

“Harry’s got himself an apprenticeship with that git,” he recalls aloud, Salazar’s eyes narrowing until Sirius corrects, “With Snape.”

He can’t resist sneering at the name, which doesn’t do much to mollify Salazar, but James’s twin continues all the same.

“Harry would also quite like to meet you before that point.”

“So you’re here to arrange a playdate?” Sirius fills in, grinning sharply when Salazar directs a flat, tired stare in his direction. “No?”

“I am here to tell you that your godson wishes to meet you for the first time in his living memory,” Salazar bites out, then makes to stand. “If you would rather wait until –”

“No!” Sirius snaps, panicked until he realises that this was Salazar’s ploy all along.

Then, he is only frustrated.

“No?” Salazar repeats, settling back into position as his lips twitch without humour. “I know you’ve spent more than a decade in Azkaban, Sirius, but Harry doesn’t need a _moron_ dancing about, pretending to be a responsible adult who should be permitted to spend time with him. If you make his life any more stressful than it already is, then magic help me, I –”

“Fine, fine!” Sirius barks, raising his hands in surrender. “Someone’s touchy today. We can arrange a time and place with that coin thing. What’s got you all in a twist?”

Salazar closes his eyes, and Sirius hates it, because it makes him look more like James. There aren’t any glasses, and his face isn’t quite the same, but their eyes were always the clearest difference, and seeing someone so close to being James but _not_ …

It just makes Sirius think that it isn’t fair.

“When you looked through my mind,” Salazar starts quietly, and Sirius slumps in relief when those eyes open once more, “Did you see anything… off? Anything missing?”

Sirius thinks it through. Well, he was pretty distracted by quite a few other things, and he doesn’t need anyone else to tell him that Azkaban has done him some major psychological damage but, now that Salazar’s called his attention to it, there’s one thing he can think of.

“What, the big hole in your childhood?” he asks, and Salazar snorts.

“Yes, that.”

He sounds distinctly bitter about it.

“That turn out to be a problem?” Sirius prods, curious and just a little vindictively satisfied – until Salazar answers.

“That turned out to be the memories of James and my parents that I’d suppressed using Occlumency to avoid messing with time in a serious way,” comes the short, cold response. “I do not know how much you know of Occlumency, but suffice to say that leaving that sort of thing as it is for too long can cause damage. Never mind that I… I was wandering around without remembering so much of my time with James, and I never realised.”

Sirius can’t imagine not remembering his time with James. It got him through Azkaban. James’s smile, his laugh, his _everything_ – the best friend that Sirius’s own stupidity tore away.

“I’m… sorry,” he manages, because however little grasp he has on his feelings towards Salazar, this is still James’s brother. “Can you get the memories back?”

Fingers twisting, Salazar nods.

“I think they are all whole,” he mutters, then lifts his head to meet Sirius’s eyes for the first time; Sirius reigns in the instinctive urge to snarl in return and try to unsettle him. “I can never know for certain. If anything is gone… by this point, there will not be a trace left. But I have released what I have, and I am starting to realise how much I missed.”

_Please don’t cry_ , Sirius thinks, because he has spent too long in Azkaban to deal with that sort of thing and, besides, he doesn’t remember Salazar ever crying at all when they were younger; trying to cope with that now would be a nightmare. To his desperate relief, Salazar blinks rapidly, the tears fading.

“That the other reason you’re here?” he asks instead of addressing any of that. “You want to talk about –”

The name sticks in his throat, but Salazar seems to understand the feeling, his lips only twisting in silently desperate grief as he nods.


	21. Chapter 21

Feasgar math! Wie gehts? 

...Two languages. Sorry about that. (Well, three now, I suppose... Don't let it fool you - I've forgotten most of my German, and I haven't yet learnt enough Gaelic to hold a more than a polite, stilted conversation. I just automatically come out with a few phrases sometimes. And this is probably me stalling because I have an apology to make.)

Right. There aren't going to be any more chapters for a few weeks - probably about a month, honestly - because, although I have more time than I did last term, I still don't have much space in my schedule for writing. Add to that the mental energy required when my brain is full of eigenvectors, propositional logic, and scepticism, and the fact that I have a joint condition that I think is currently being exacerbated in my wrist by the amount of typing I'm doing... Yeah, I'm taking a break, sorry. I'll continue to reply to any comments, but I'll probably get rid of this 'chapter' when normally posting resumes, so heads-up for that.

Anyway, I hope you're all well, and take care of yourselves over the next few weeks!


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